The Strange Case of Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes
by Padfoot333
Summary: John and Sherlock had been mates from the moment they met. John never thought anything of his concern for Sherlock. But one night when Sherlock almost gets shot, John's finally had enough. Coming to terms with their feelings wasn't easy, but they managed. But when a new criminal named Moriarty comes in to play, both John and Sherlock realize caring is not an advantage. #Johnlock
1. Wins and Loses

_**Author's Note:**_

_** Hi all, this is my first ever *published* fanfic. I have a strong idea of where I want to take this story and so it will probably be pretty long. Also, I don't have a lot of "in-person" friends who obsess over the Sherlock series as much as I do, and I don't think any of them understand just how hard I ship Johnlock. This being said, I don't have a lot of feedback about the story, and so if you could write some reviews or comments, I'd very much appreciate it. Thanks for choosing to look at my story and I hope you enjoy :)**_

_**Disclaimer: I claim no right to the characters in this story. They are the intellectual property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **_

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><p>Rain spattered the windows of a police car. The car was being driven by a policeman of New Scotland Yard. His name was Officer Lavern Donalds. He was driving in silence, staring out the windshield into the darkened London streets. Two men sat in the back seat, breathing heavily and looking forward. They had just come from a crime scene and were on their way to NSY now for questioning. Another cop car followed close behind. In the back seat of that car a man sat with his hands cuffed together. This was the man John and Sherlock had been chasing through the night. And it was John and Sherlock who sat in the back seat of the first cop car now.<p>

John Watson had become used to chasing criminals in the company of Sherlock Holmes, but that didn't mean that he was in perfect physical condition to do so. He sat next to Sherlock, trying to steady his breathing and calm his pounding heart. When he glanced over at Sherlock, who sat perfectly still, he noticed that Sherlock was smiling. The detective had returned his breathing pace to an almost normal level, and his hands were knotted in his lap. The smile itself, was small and didn't convey too much emotion, except that it's wearer seemed to be pleased.

_How can he be so happy?_ John thought to himself, as he looked over the strange and tall man sitting next to him. Normally, John would be just as happy to solve a crime as Sherlock, but tonight was different. Tonight, Sherlock had nearly gotten himself killed. John had pleaded with Sherlock before, to have some concern for his own well being, but Sherlock had never really heeded this advice. Seeing Sherlock so close to death was something John was sure he would never get used to.

However, Sherlock's almost supernatural ability to read John's thoughts, John had gotten used to. That's not to say that John wasn't slightly disturbed by it, but he was more amazed than upset. So, when Sherlock looked over at John, it wasn't really a surprise when he answered John's unspoken question about the source of his happiness. "I'm not pleased with nearly dying. I am pleased that the mystery is solved," Sherlock's voice was deep and smooth, all traces of his previous breathlessness were gone now. "The game is over," he continued on. "And I won..."

Silence stretched between them. Sherlock noted that Officer Donalds was watching them in the review mirror, but John didn't notice, or else he didn't car. "You know," John began in a shaky voice, "if you had gotten yourself killed, you wouldn't have won." He had looked down at his lap as he spoke. Now he looked back up at Sherlock to try and gauge the reaction his words would get.

After a few seconds, Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and looked blankly out the window. "If I would have been killed, you still would have the knowledge to put our murderer behind bars. The case still would have been solved. I still would have been the one to solve it. I still would have won." Sherlock's lips curled upward again into a slight smile as he thought about his so-called "win" this evening.

"But then what would I lose?" John muttered under his breath. His thoughts were trailing to a secret place. Sherlock had a mind palace, he knew the exact mental-location of every piece of information he had cared to store. John had something similar, as most people do, inside he moderately sized mental map John had a room that he kept secure with lock and key. Behind the door he stored all the things he knew he couldn't forget, but nevertheless didn't want to remember. In this room were his memories of the war, his mother's death, his sister's drinking problem, a cheating girlfriend, and the death of his childhood dog Apollo. The most recent addition to this locked room was John's ever-growing feelings for Sherlock. Each time he experienced a resurgence of emotion, he would calmly remind himself that he was not gay, and shove those thoughts into this room, locking the figurative door behind , however, these thoughts were beginning to pile up and some of them were managing to escape when John wasn't extra vigilant

Of course Sherlock had heard John's mumble, but he thought it best not to say anything. He made a note to figure out John's meaning later, but for now, he needed to focus on the case. He resolved to do just that as the two police cars pulled into the lot of NSY. From the main entrance, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stepped out into the rainy night and escorted Sherlock and John inside.

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_**I've added a bit to this first chapter. I hope it will give more detail and setting for where the boys are and what they're doing. I also made a few corrections to spelling and grammar. Thanks to my friend Johnnie who is helping me edit this story. Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter. **_


	2. Dreams at 221B

After a very long night at the Yard, Sherlock and John finally opened the door to their flat. Exhausted, and emotionally worn, John made his way immediately upstairs only pausing at the door of his bedroom to call "goodnight" down to Sherlock, who responded with a small "Hmph." John shook his head and went into the room, closing the door behind him.

Without even bothering to remove his clothes or shoes, John fell face forward into his welcoming bed. He glanced over and saw that the clock read 5:02am. He was supposed to be to work at 9am. _Perhaps I'll call in. I'm getting too old for this_. He didn't have much time to contemplate his age or state and how it affected his criminal pursuit hobby, because he was quickly pulled into a dream-filled sleep.

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><p>John was working quickly and effectively. He finished tying off the last stitch for the soldier he was currently working on, then quickly called out "Next!" It was hard to hear over the sound of bullets and screaming that was a battle so close by. Sand and dirt blew into John's face, and stuck to the sweat that was pouring down in response to the extreme heat combined with the stress of operation. Nurses were bustling about, moving soldiers to and from operating stations, handing doctors their necessary tools, checking vitals, or trying to be helpful in any possible war.<p>

The war in Afghanistan was horrific, but then what war isn't? John was an army doctor, meaning most of his day were spent performing meatball surgery while a hailstorm of bullets was raining down only a few yards away from him. He was a good doctor, and he saved most of the soldiers that had been brought to him. But he was always somewhat detached, like the people he was working on weren't his brothers-in-arms. He had operated on enemy soldiers and ally soldiers alike, never really feeling much of a difference.

As the finished soldier was carried away, another was brought over for John to repair. He glanced quickly at the man in uniform. He was tall and lean, but currently his most prominent feature was the gaping wound in his stomach. John began to formulate a plan of action, calling out to his nurse for tools.

He had been operating for about 5 minutes, which felt like hours in the desert heat. Not once had John glanced anywhere above the patients torso. But something compelled him to do so, and as he did he felt a wave of nausea and disbelief. He knew that face, he couldn't distance himself from this operation. He shook his head, hoping that he was seeing things, and that this wasn't really him. But the face wouldn't fade, and the name on the uniform confirmed his horror. "S. Holmes" it read.

John's head reeled, his hands began to tremble. He couldn't think, couldn't act. Never had he been sick when he was brought a wounded man, but this man was different. Simultaneously he felt the urge to run but was glued to the spot. Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's bloody and bruised face.

Somewhere off to his right side, John was aware that the nurse was saying something, but he couldn't make out the words. A loud ringing filled his ears, and every other sound seemed to fade away. He gripped tightly to the stretcher they had wheeled Sherlock in on. The world seemed to distort, blacken at the edges of his vision. But he was yanked sharply back to the present, when he felt the stretcher being pulled away from him. He shook his head to clear the remanents of the ringing and finally make out what his nurse was saying.

"Captain Watson, you have to let go. You have to move on. He's gone. I'll go get the next one." John heard her words, but he was having trouble piecing together there meaning. All he understood was that she was trying to take Sherlock away. Finally, the realization dawned on him. She wanted to get the next patient because Sherlock had died.

The captain, normally so removed, so emotionally uninvolved, sank to his knees, pulling the stretcher down with him. Sherlock's body rolled onto the ground next to John. He pulled the lifeless form into his arms and held it close, letting tears push through his closed eyes.

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><p>John woke with a start, sweating and shaking. For the second time tonight he had to will himself to calm down. He sat up in bed for sometime, just trying to focus on his breathing. <em>1..2...3...4 exhale...1...2...3...4 Inhale. Only a dream. 1...2...3...<em> Once he was able to get control of his breath again, he started to remember every detail of the dream. _No, nightmare_. He felt himself begin to shake, and he allowed himself to fall back into bed and begin to sob.

While John had been having his nightmare, Sherlock was downstairs on the sofa, curled about himself. When John had took his leave to go to bed, Sherlock had decided to remain awake and read up on the subject of forensic chemistry. The textbook he had been reading, which was written in French, had fallen to the floor when Sherlock dozed off. He hadn't meant to of course, but physical exertion and mental overload had finally won out over his will, and he had drifted into the land of dreams.

Sherlock's dream was considerably happier than John's, though Sherlock might not care to admit it. In the dream he was kissing John. Their bodies were flush against each other, and John had wrapped his arms about Sherlock's thin waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock was surprised at how warm and comfortable he found this embrace, and he was wishing to be held even tighter. John's lips pressed repeatedly against Sherlocks, leaving a light tingling sensation all over his mouth.

Of course there is a downside to being the incredible S. Holmes, he is a very light sleeper and so his dream was cut shot when he was awoken by the sound of John coming down the stairs.

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><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_

_** Hi, so second chapter here. I had my boyfriend read over the first few chapters and he thinks they are too short and lacking in detail. I'm going to try and expand this chapter as well as the next few as well. Please let me know what you think. I'd appreciate it. **_


	3. If You Die I'll Kill You

As Sherlock was roused, he hurriedly sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. He fidgeted with his dressing gown, trying to conceal the dream-induced erection.

As John came down the stairs, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock was still up, it was as if the man never slept more than 3 hours a day anyway. John stood there a moment and glared at Sherlock who was simply looking forward, a bored expression on his face.

John entered the kitchen in a huff. Upstairs, after his tears had stopped flowing, anger had kicked in. Normally after dreams of Afghanistan John was mad at himself, but this time he had someone else to direct his anger at. He wanted to yell at Sherlock, but he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to say. He was angry at Sherlock. Maybe he was being illogical, but he didn't give a damn. He felt his blood boiling, and the longer he stood there, the angrier he got.

"Bloody hell," he muttered and then stomped back into the living room where Sherlock still sat perched on the couch.

"You're a bloody idiot you know!" John yelled, causing Sherlock to jump slightly.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock blinked slowly at John, trying to comprehend the meaning of his statement and the source of his anger.

"I said, you're a bloody idiot," John repeated once more, this time a bit more calmly.

"That's odd. Your usual opinions of me are 'brilliant', 'fascinating,' and 'genius.' Why the sudden change?" Sherlock's face was expressionless, he was so practiced at reading people that he was able to make it so that no one could read him. This was one of Sherlock's habits that both impressed and infuriated John.

"Yes. But every single time you throw yourself in harm's way, I think less and less of you. I've often wondered if you're plain suicidal!"

"John, I always meet my goals. If suicide was among them, I would be dead already. Do you doubt that? Why are you still upset about this anyway?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I've been shot Sherlock. I know what it's like." John gestured to his shoulder, shuddering slightly as he did so. "It almost happened to you tonight. You could have been hurt, paralyzed, or killed!" He was pointing accusingly at Sherlock, whose eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "I don't care how many times I've seen a bullet wound before, I don't want to see one in you." John was breathing hard. He shoulder was aching, _psychosomatic_ chimed in Sherlock's voice in his head.

"John, that man wasn't a very good shot. I would have been a difficult target to an experienced shooter, to him I was a nearly impossible shot. If he would have actually been able to hit me, it would more than likely have been in a non-fatal area of my body. Since there was a doctor present, you obviously, I could easily have been patched up. I calculated my odds of survival versus the necessity of capturing our man, and I liked my chances."

"You think that just because I was there, I could have kept you from dying?" The color drained from John's face. In his mind he could still see the war-torn Sherlock from his nightmare. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Yes John. I believe that you would have saved me." Silence. Both men were tense. John clenched and unclenched his fist while trying to think of how best to respond to this. Sherlock tried in vain to escape into his mind palace to find some sort of information that could help him identify these strange new..._ what was the thing I don't have? Ah yes feelings_.

"And what if I couldn't Sherlock!" John finally bellowed, slamming the door of Sherlock's mind palace closed, and probably waking poor Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He'd never heard himself yell so loud before. His whole body shook with rage and fear and longing. He stared at Sherlock's pale blue eyes, but as he glared he noticed those eyes start to look anywhere but John's own gaze.

"You'd be able to," Sherlock voiced in a whisper, casting his eyes downward.

"You can't possibly know that?" John lowered his voice purposefully. "Do you know how many people I couldn't save in the war Sherlock? How many people have died on my table? In my care? I could go back to meatball surgery, I really could. But I can't go there with you." John ran his hand over his face and stayed quiet for a moment. "I refuse to watch you die." John saw Sherlock start to open his mouth, but before he had a chance John yelled, "I won't!" Sherlock peeked up at John through his soft curls that had fallen down over his face.

"Why is it that you only feel this way about me?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John stayed quiet for quite some time. Finally he sighed heavily and hung his head. "I don't know. You are brilliant, and funny, and a good person. I like you Sherlock. I like living with you, and working on cases with you. I like your mess and your crazy experiments, and I like the way you play violin. I don't want to lose those things." John felt a hard lump growing in his throat. The thought of Sherlock leaving his life caused pinpricks in the backs of his eyes, threatening to force more tears to flow down his cheeks.

Sherlock's mind was surveying at triple its normal speed. He could hear the clock ticking on the mantle, he could see the faint glow of impending sunrise out of the window behind John, he could smell his most recent experiment rotting away in the kitchen. He was also taking mental notes of his own body. _Elevated heart rate. Heightened light sensitivity meaning dilated pupils. Warmth of cheeks, possibly leading to a reddened colour. Muscle fatigue in lower legs causing shaking of the knees. Shallowed breathing. What diagnoses fit this category?_ Several options seemed to pop up in Sherlock's line of sight, but each of them was a definition of a human emotional state, mostly along the lines of affection, attraction, passion, and love.

_That can't be right_, Sherlock thought. But as he opened the room in his mind palace devoted to John, he retrieved some of the thoughts he'd tried to bury but was unable to do so. _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

Sherlock unfolded himself from his seated position on the couch. His knees shook slightly under his weight, but he crossed quickly to where John was standing. When there was only a few inches between them, Sherlock stopped, hesitating for a fraction of a second. The he pushed forward, wrapped his arms around John and pressed his lips hard against John's. It was a closed mouth kiss, but John didn't resist, and Sherlock wasn't persistent.

Sherlock pulled back and stood away from John, waiting for a reaction. Finally, John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. He shook his head slowly and then said "Sherlock, if you die, I'll kill you," before pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss.

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

**So I updated this chapter because I edited a bit and added some stuff. My boyfriend's comments have been really helpful, and I think I need to take his advice about expanding more on details, especially where Sherlock's thoughts are concerned. I might come back and re-edit this again, so please bear with me as I try to write to the best of my ability. Thanks again for reading.**


	4. The Way Your Skin Feels

Sherlock and John stood a few feet apart, each gazing down at their own feet. A shiver ran up Sherlock's long spine, and John was blinking rapidly. They both felt a little too warm for comfort.

Sherlock's brilliant mind was running so fast that he felt dizzy. He was so used to being in control. _Okay so I'm feeling an emotion. When did this start happening? Try reading John...Go on... Look at him. _Sherlock looked up, but as he glanced around John's person, he drew nothing but blanks. Question marks popped up all around John's frame_. So I can't read John. That's new and...unnerving. I wonder if John could read me right now. I'm sure he could. Compose yourself, hide this emotional indiscretion. Don't let John see. _Sherlock was right of course, if John would only have looked up at Sherlock, he would have been able to read him with ease.

John felt as if he was falling. _Sherlock kissed me_. John couldn't understand what it meant. _Is this just another of Sherlock's experiments?_ That thought was so painful John pushed it away immediately. _No, he wouldn't. A means to an end? A necessary step to solve the emotional puzzle that I am?_ John shook his head slightly and bit down so hard that his jaw began to ache.

John desperately wished that he could rewind to that moment when Sherlock had pressed his lips so gently to his own. If John could, he would pause on that moment of connection forever. In that moment there were no questions, no second guessing, no regret. _If only..._ John thought.

Time passed, feeling like days even though it was only a few moments. John cleared his throat to begin to speak. Before he could get the first word out, Sherlock looked up at him. John's heart sank when he saw those big blue eyes glazed with tears. He couldn't help but feel pain as he saw Sherlock, who was normally so...mechanical, let go and just be human for once.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was so low it was almost impossible to hear, but all of John's senses were tensed toward Sherlock at this moment (and at most moments if John was being honest). "I'm sorry John," Sherlock continued. "I crossed a line... I don't know what I was thinking."

John watched as a single tear rolled from the corner of Sherlock's eye and down his cheek. The droplet glistened on that sharp cheekbone, but quivered and rolled further down when Sherlock gave a hurt little shiver.

That single shiver sent an arrow through John's heart. He felt pierced and the pain spread until he felt it radiating through his whole body. John willed himself to move, and closed the space between himself and Sherlock. He slowly reached his hand up and used his thumb to wipe away the tear from Sherlock's face.

"Please don't cry," John said softly. He let his hand rest against that porcelain skin. "It's like I imagined," he muttered.

"What is?" Sherlock asked as he tilted his head slightly so that his face pushed more into John's hand.

John hadn't really meant to say that out loud, but he forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye and tell the truth. "The way your skin feels," he said as he slid his hand gently down to Sherlock's chin. "I've always wondered if your skin felt as smooth as it looks."

Sherlock was cataloguing every sensation as fast as he could. The slight roughness of John's hand, the pure green sliver in John's right, mostly hazel eye. The smell of John's breath (a mix of coffee and something sweet like a scone, with the recent addition of Sherlock's mouthwash). The way John's eyes flitted from Sherlock's eyes and back down to Sherlock's neck.

"I thought you hated my violin playing," Sherlock asked, thinking that he ought to say something.

John let out a small laugh. "Only when it's at 4 'o clock in the morning and you're mindlessly plucking the strings and not actually playing." John thought back to one of his first nights in the flat when he was woken up by a beautiful and tragic sounding song coming from the living room. Sherlock had been working a case that appeared to be a string of suicides, but that he believed to be a serial killer. "Let's sit." John motioned to the sofa with a nod of his head.

Sherlock sat down and wrapped his long arms around his knees, which he'd pulled up against his chest.

"How can you fold yourself up so much?" John asked, attempting to lighten the mood, but Sherlock simply looked at him with his "isn't it obvious?" face, so John just sat down next to his lanky flatmate. "Why did you apologize?" Sherlock tilted his head at this question as he looked at John.

"I made physical contact without asking your permission. I did so with no concern for your feelings. I acted on pure impulse. Typically when I act in those ways people become perturbed. I assumed you'd be the same."

"Most people become perturbed after talking to you for 5 minutes Sherlock. I am not one of those people, I actually enjoy being with you. I think I made that point pretty clear. But you didn't offend me. I was startled, but I would characterize it as a pleasant surprise. I've wanted to kiss you before." Getting these things off his chest brought John so much relief that he felt as if he were floating. How he'd longed for the courage to come out and tell Sherlock how he really felt. Sometimes he'd even imagined that it would be easier going back to Afghanistan than sharing his emotions with Sherlock.

"Can I lean my head on your shoulder John?" The request was soft-spoken and tentative. But when John lifted his arm as an answer, Sherlock nearly knocked him over in his haste to regain contact. John draped his arm around Sherlock.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner Sherlock."

Sherlock made a low grumble in response. He was in paradise. He had never realized how good it could feel to have someone touch him in this way. _No_ he thought, _not someone. John_.

John began running his hand slowly over Sherlock's back. "Is this okay with you?" John asked. He was terrified that the answer would be no. _Perhaps this is an experiment after all..._

But Sherlock dispelled John's fears when he nodded vigorously and gave a contented sigh into John's chest. John could feel the tension in Sherlock's muscles melting away, so he continued to sit there and trace patterns on the detective's back until he heard a small snore.

John had never been able to fall asleep in any position except lying on his back. But tonight he felt so comfortable with Sherlock asleep against his chest that he closed his eyes and fell into a deep and blissful sleep.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Okay, just another quick editing update here. I did add some extra insight into the boy's minds, hopefully that helps build their characters. I really hope you like it, and please please leave me reviews. Thanks :)**


	5. The Best Sensation

Sunlight danced across Sherlock's eyelids. He felt warm and content, so little on his mind. But as consciousness creeped in, his mind was beginning to speed up to it's normal pace. He groaned a little, wanting to fall back into his slumber. After fighting for awhile, he realized it was hopeless and that he was too awake now to get back to sleep.

"Good morning." John smiled down at Sherlock, who was stretched out across his lap. "Sleep well?"

Sherlock blinked up at John, wondering if this was a dream, if last night was a dream. "Better than usual," he replied. Popping sounds filled the air as Sherlock arched his back and stretched.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark brown curls. Sherlock sighed in response and sunk back down into John's lap, closing his eyes.

"I slept well too. You make a nice blanket." John stilled and gazed down at Sherlock's relaxed face. There was no sign of any stress or concern. This was a sight John would like to see more often.

"Please go back to stroking my hair John."

John smiled and began running his hands through the soft mess of hair again.

Slowly John noticed lines beginning to run across the alabaster skin of Sherlock's forehead. He was thinking, John knew that for sure. But he decided to wait for Sherlock to voice his concern aloud.

"What spawned your anger last night John?" Sherlock asked, eyes still closed. "You seemed relatively relieved in the car."

"I had a...bad dream." John really didn't want to remember the horrific nightmare.

"What about?" Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and found John's. He looked at him with a mix of concern and curiosity.

John sighed, but deigned to give Sherlock an explanation. "I was back in the war. I was operating extremely close to a battlefield. Everything was loud and hectic. They brought me a wounded soldier. His stomach was torn open, ripped apart by a bullet. I...I couldn't save him...He died." John trailed off and grew tense.

Sherlock felt the muscles tensing and he felt the immediate need to console the doctor. Pulling himself up so that he could face John, he took John's hand in his. "You couldn't have saved everyone John. It's okay that you didn't save him. I'm sure you did everything that you could have done. That soldier would have understood that."

"That soldier was you, you git." John glared at Sherlock, a sudden resurgence of anger as he remembered the confidence the detective had placed in him only last night.

"Oh." Sherlock cast his gaze down. He pushed against John's chest again. He didn't like John's anger, he wanted to go back to John stroking his hair and feeling secure. This anger was a place of uncertainty and discomfort.

"Please, in the future, show some concern for your life and limb. It would save me a lot of anxiety and possibly heartache."

"Alright, I'll keep that in mind." Sherlock snuggled closer to John, snaking his long arms around John's waist. "I wish I would have kissed you sooner, this is the best sensation in the world."

"I agree," John said as he felt a warm tingling spread through him as he held Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Kiss Me

John called in to work to let them know he would not be in today. He had given a vague explanation as to why he was staying home today. This made Sherlock smirk up at the doctor as he hung up the phone.

"Are the other doctors at your office really that stupid?" Sherlock said in a low grumble through his snarky expression.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"John, anyone could see through that excuse, if a doctor can't deduce that you're lying about an illness, then they should be required to give back their license to practice."

John rolled his eyes and shifted his weight under Sherlock. "I didn't want to lie. I tried to be as honest as possible. Besides, I'm a doctor as you recall. They're not going to doubt my diagnosis."

"They might doubt all your future diagnoses now that they've heard how atrocious you are at coming up with an excuse illness.

John tried to give Sherlock a dirty look, but he failed miserably and both of them just laughed. It felt so good to laugh and feel carefree. Nothing else in the world mattered right now to them except each other.

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><p>The rest of the day passed for the men of 221B in a blur. Mostly, they had spent the day draped around each other on the sofa.<p>

In the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson brought up lunch for Sherlock. She was surprised to see John home, but she seemed unfazed by the sight of the two men snuggled up together on the couch. "Sorry boys, didn't mean to interrupt." She said as she set the tray down on the coffee table. "John, I didn't expect you home. I didn't bring up anything for you to eat. Give me a moment, I'll be back with something." She turned and walked out smiling to herself.

John looked down at Sherlock and let out a little groan.

"What is it John?" Sherlock looked up lazily at John.

"Just imagining how pleased Mrs. Hudson must be to see us like this."

"Are you upset that she knows?" Sherlock tensed and tried to sit up so he would no longer be draped across John's lap. But John pushed him back down into his lounging position.

"Of course not. I'm just thinking of all the time I wasted, denying what I knew to be true. She was right all along, I should have just listened to her." He shook his head slightly thinking of all the little remarks Mrs. Hudson had made, and how he had always tried to refute them. It seemed silly to him now. "She's probably grinning ear-to-ear right now."

When Mrs. Hudson returned with John's food, she was indeed wearing an extra-large grin. She fussed with some papers and books Sherlock had left strewn across the floor, and she made a comment under her breath about the dusting, but she couldn't stay mad at her boys, especially when they looked so happy.

She bid her farewell to them, telling them that if they needed anything, just to shout and she would come running. She closed the door behind her and they listened to her make her way down the stairs and back into her own flat.

John began stroking Sherlock's hair again, and the comfort they both felt was immense, so much so that the food on the coffee table was forgotten and went uneaten.

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><p>Around 7 pm a low rumble broke the serenity of the flat.<p>

"Sounds like you're hungry." Sherlock's voice was almost a purr. He was lying on his back with his head at one end of the sofa and his feet at the other. His legs were parted, allowing John to lay between them with his head against Sherlock's chest.

John lifted his head and propped his chin against Sherlock's breastbone so he could look into those beautiful blue eyes. Sherlock watched as John's head moved slightly upward each time he inhaled.

"Have we eaten today?" John asked. "I don't remember. I've been too comfortable to care."He glanced over at the coffee table as he remembered Mrs. Hudson's food that was still sitting there. _That's probably gone bad by now_. "You're usually the only one who forgets to eat. Look what you're doing to me." He smiled at Sherlock, who couldn't help but smile back. John was amazed that in the past few hours he had seen Sherlock smile more than the entire time he'd lived with him. It made John's heart swell.

"Yes, well your stomach's beginning to disagree with the current arrangement. Come, let's get dinner." Sherlock made to sit up, but John just went right on lying there, pressing all his weight into him.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you asking me out on a date?" The look on Sherlock's face in response to this question is something that is permanently burned into John's memory. How could he ever forget that slight blush, half smile, and puppy-dog eyes?

"I...I don't normally do the dating thing. I've seen others do it before, but I've deleted that knowledge whilst decluttering my mind palace. I've never once worked a case in which I needed information on human romantic relations."

"Well, I'll tell you what. Kiss me, and I'll take _you_ out on the first date. I'll show you how this works." John was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock's slight blush turning even redder.

Sherlock hesitated before pulling John up so that they were face to face. He looked into John's eyes, finding that one pure green sliver that made his heart skip a beat. He was almost certain that he was seeing an extreme positive emotion in those eyes. _Pleasure? Amusement? Desire? _His mind ran through the possibilities. He settled on desire and so put his hand on the back of John's head and pulled him down to press their lips together.

Sherlock was analyzing, John could tell. Their first and second kisses had been driven by instinctive, emotion-ridden movements, but this was John's real first trademark "Sherlock Holmes Kiss."

Sherlock's lips moved slowly. A small rhythm built as Sherlock pressed John's lower lip between both of his own, paused and the moved to the top lip. He kissed in this pattern starting at the right end of John's mouth, and moving slowly to the left.

At first John tried to kiss back, but each time he did, Sherlock's lips would stop moving. Soon John gave up and gave in to the sensation of just being kissed.

When Sherlock made it to the left end of John's mouth, he finished by placing his lips fully against John's so that their top and bottom lips were perfectly set against each other.

The kiss ended and Sherlock pulled his head back and released John, trying to read him. He felt an immense satisfaction when John let out the breath he'd forgot he'd been holding during the kiss.

"Well then. Mr. Holmes, would you care to go out on a date with me this evening?" John smiled at Sherlock, whose face lit up like Christmas.


	7. Dinner and a Crime Scene

"So how does this go exactly? Sherlock was standing in the living room, freshly showered, hair (somewhat) brushed, nicely shaven, and in a gorgeous suit, when John was coming down the stairs.

John stopped dead on the last step. His mouth agape. "You look...amazing Sherlock." While people often said things like this out of courtesy or habit, when John said it tonight, he meant it.

The buttons on Sherlock's deep red shirt were straining slightly as the fabric clung to his chest. His black trousers were straight and neat, but hung low on his hip bones. His jacket was also black and pressed to perfection. Even his black leather shoes were freshly shined and had the neatest knots John had ever seen.

When Sherlock heard the compliment he shyly looked down and adjusted his shirt. "You look nice, as always." Sherlock returned the compliment, and he did mean it, but if John hadn't said it first, he wouldn't have even thought to say it.

John wore a loose fitting, but clean and pressed light blue button down shirt, tan trousers, a tan suit jacket, and brown leather shoes. He heard Sherlock's compliment, but he was still drinking in the slight of the tall detective.

The sound of Sherlock clearing his throat brought John back to the present. "Oh right. Thank you. It was short notice, but I managed to get us a table at a nice little restaurant. Our cab should be here in a few moments. Shall we go down to the curb?"

* * *

><p>The cab picked them up 5 minutes later, Sherlock slid in to the darkened back seat, followed by John. In the silence Sherlock stared out the window into the black sky of London.<em> 3.1415926535897923284...<em>

"What are you thinking about?" John asked when he noticed Sherlocks lips moving slightly.

"What?" Sherlock's train of thought was broken at the sound of John's voice. "I was uh..." Sherlock bite his lip. "Reciting digits of pi."

John raised one eyebrow. "Can I ask why?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment, he had never divulged this little habit of his with anyone, with the exception of Mycroft. "I uh... I use it as a way to deal with anxiety."

"Oh. How many digits do you have memorized?" John was under the impression that this was the most personal thing Sherlock had shared with him yet.

"129." Sherlock felt relief that John didn't seem to find this habit odd or unhealthy. Rather, he seemed to be more impressed by it than anything. "Everytime I get to the 130th digit, I can't seem to get it, it's perpetually slipping out of my mental fingertips." His brows furrowed in frustration at the thought.

"That is incredible," John said with audible sincerity.

"Really? How many do you know?"

Now John felt like a proper idiot. At first he thought of lying and upping the number to something a bit less sad, but then he worried Sherlock might test him. _Honesty is the best policy after all_. "Just the standard 3.14." He waited for Sherlock to laugh at him but when no laughter, and not even a condesending smile, came John felt some comfort. "But Sherlock, you don't have to be anxious. We're just having dinner." He reached over and placed his hand on top of Sherlock's, running his thumb across the cool pale skin.

* * *

><p>When the car pulled up to restaurant, John and Sherlock eased out of the back seat. John leaned against the car and pulled out his wallet to pay the driver. When the fare was squared away, he rushed up and grabbed the door to the restaurant before Sherlock got a chance. "After you," he said with a motion of his hand.<p>

"This is the place we came on the night that we first met," Sherlock noted.

"Yes we never got to actually eat anything if you recall. Too busy chasing down a murderous cabbie."

"You know Angelo will be pleased that his deductions about us were correct?"

"I thought he might."

"Sherlock!" Angelo's voice boomed as he came to the hostess podium. "You actually going to eat this time?" His laugh was like a drum beating and it echoed around the entire restaurant. "Ah John, I see the leg's doing better."

John nodded politely. "I called ahead for a table for 2." John really wanted to get on with the date portion of the evening.

"Ah yes, I got it all set up for ya. Right this way." Angelo led them to a small secluded two-seater table that he'd adorned with a single candle. He smiled as the two men sat down. "So date night is it?" Angelo was absolutely incapable of hiding his own excitement.

"Yes actually,"John responded with confidence. "Our first. Might we have a bottle of your finest red wine?"

"I knew it! I said it from day one! Didn't I say it! Oh congratulations! I'm so happy for you two!" Angelo was beaming, and although John desperately wanted to be alone with Sherlock, he had to admit that Angelo's enthusiasm was infectious. Even Sherlock was grinning. "Alright gentlemen, I'll be right back with that vino."

Sherlock turned his attention back to John as Angelo walked away. He was marveling at John's confidence. He had worried that John would be embarrassed or ashamed of him, but John never seemed to fail to surprise him.

* * *

><p>Dinner was going smoothly. Sherlock was lecturing John about the electrical conductivity of various types of flesh, including human. John was trying to keep up and remain interested, not because he particularly cared to learn the information, but because it was something that Sherlock seemed fascinated by.<p>

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped his lesson. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude."

John's jaw practically hit the table. Not only had Sherlock stopped, voluntarily, mid-rant, but he had actually apologized.

"No, no, don't worry about it. I find you extremely interesting."

"Really? That's not the response I usually elicit from people."

"The amount of interest I feel towards you, most people can't elicit from me."

Both men looked down at their plates, slightly embarrassed, but flushed with emotion.

Angelo came back to their table holding a plate with a large slice of tiramisu and 2 spoons. "Desert to share. On the house."

"Thank you Angelo. This is very nice of you," John said and Sherlock nodded his agreement.

Over desert, Sherlock asked John questions about his early life, such as schooling, career aspirations, and first romantic endeavors. This was the first time that Sherlock had ever explicitly asked John about himself, he normally just deduced everything.

"Sorry Sherlock, I'm not used to this type of conversation with you. I would have thought you would have figured out all of these things already."

"Honestly? I have. Almost all of my deductions have been correct I must say." Sherlock never could help himself if he had the opportunity to show off.

"So why let me go on like this and bore you with information you already know?" John asked, feeling slightly silly that he had been talking for so long.

"I was attempting what most people engage in as normal conversation. Did I get it wrong?"

"No, no. You were doing very well. But you don't have to try and be someone else. You can be yourself around me. I like you the way you are."

They finished off desert and Angelo came by to drop off the check. Sherlock reached out, but John grabbed it first. "I took you out on the date, I pay the bill," John said, slipping his credit card into the check holder.

* * *

><p>"Thank you for dinner John," Sherlock said in the cab ride home. "It was a very pleasant experience."<p>

"You're welcome." John was feeling a pleasant buzz from the wine, and drunk on Sherlock's company.

The cab lit up when Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text message. The message was from Detective Inspector Lestrade.

_**Third murder. Same pattern. No prints, DNA, or sign of break in. Ideas?**_

Sherlock's fingers flew across his keyboard.

_**Be there in 15. Make sure Anderson hasn't touched anything. - SH**_

"Everything alright?" John asked.

"Another game has begun my dear Watson. Change of plans driver." Sherlock leaned forward and began instructing the driver on the quickest route to get to the crime scene. The driver was giving him a dirty look and quite plainly ignoring him. "Why do these drivers never take my directions?" Sherlock asked as he flopped back down against his seat.

"Because most people don't like being told how to do their job." John smirked, but he knew Sherlock was right, if the cabbie would follow Sherlock's route, they would be there at least 5 minutes earlier.

"Well if they're doing it wrong, someone should tell them." Sherlock put his hand on John's knee. "Are you alright with this?"

"Of course. No date sounds better than dinner and a crime scene."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. As always, I'd ask if you could please review. Also, I hope fans of the show remember Angelo from the very first episode. I have to give credit to the idea of writing him into the story to my best friend Johnnie. Thanks Johnnie for the awesome, and adorable, idea! Hope you all enjoyed! **


	8. A Fascinating Experience

"You're looking for a man, 6 foot 2 or 3, about 14 stone, who works as a waiter or cook."

"How on Earth can you possibly know his occupation?" Anderson shot at Sherlock from across the room.

"Lestrade, if you do not remove Anderson from my presence, I will. And it will not be by means of the front door." Sherlock was on the floor, peering through his small magnifying glass at a barely visible footprint.

"Go out and get some air Anderson."Lestrade barked. Before Anderson could argue, Lestrade cut him off with "Now." The forensic scientist sulked down the stairs and out the front door.

John felt slightly bad for the man who had just received a scolding. But then he remembered all the times that Anderson had teased or taunted Sherlock, and his empathy quickly faded away. John had never felt quite so protective of Sherlock as he did right now.

Lestrade leaned down and used a low voice to ask Sherlock, "How do you know his occupation?"

"His shoes are slip-resistant, required by most food establishments. His weight would suggest a physical labor job. The two highest possibilities would be cook or waiter." Sherlock stood up and with a wave of his coat, turned and headed for the door. "Come along John."

"Is that is?" Lestrade began to follow Sherlock.

"I just gave you the gender, height, weight, and occupation of your killer. What exactly are they paying you for?" With that, Sherlock was down the stairs and back into the street with his coat flapping behind him. John apologized to Lestrade and quickly followed Sherlock outside.

* * *

><p>Another cab ride. Sherlock sat in silence in the dark car, his fingers steepled under his chin. He was thinking.<p>

John knew not to interrupt him during his train of thought. So he just sat back and waited for Sherlock to emerge from his trance-like state.

"Is it customary for the recipient of dinner to give the person who paid sex?" Sherlock finally said.

John choked. He had been under the impression that Sherlock had been thinking about the crime scene they had just left. "Sorry? What?" he finally managed.

"I was under the impression that most men expect to be given sexual favor in exchange for their purchase of dinner. Is this information incorrect?"

"Well a lot of blokes yes...But you don't have..." A furious blush crept across John's tan skin. "I'm not one of them."

"You don't want to have sex with me?" Sherlock's voice was normal. He was holding in an emotion he didn't often feel, self-doubt.

John was sure that he was scarlet. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "It's not that I don't want to Sherlock, it's just..."

One little word, just, and John watched Sherlock's face fall.

"I want you to feel comfortable Sherlock. It's not a matter of expectation or reciprocation. Let's just let things happen. Don't worry about what most people do. After all, you and I are definitely not most people." John took Sherlock's hand in his. He could feel Sherlock's pulse pounding through his thin pale skin. The usually near-silent breathing that came from Sherlock, was now hitching in his chest. "If you want to recite pi aloud, I'd love to hear it. I'm sure it's a fascinating experience." John gave Sherlock's hand a slight squeeze.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he gripped John's hand tight. He hadn't done this aloud since he was a child. But he knew it would help him to calm down, so he entered into the grand doorway of his mind palace and went to his storage space for pi.

_Deep breath, head held high, concentrate, now begin to speak._ "3.14," Sherlock began, his voice breaking slightly. "15926535897932384626433832795028841976939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460...I can't...I can't recall the 130th digit." He had rattled off these 129 numbers in about a minute and a half. John was speechless.

Sherlock's heart rate had come down and his grip on John's hand loosened a little. He sat listening to John breath, keeping his eyes closed until he counted a satisfactory number of beats per minute.

When his eyes slowly blinked open he looked over to John, who reached his free hand up, placed it on the back of Sherlock's head and pulled Sherlock so that their faces were inches apart. "A fascinating experience indeed," he said before pressing his lips gently to Sherlocks.

The only sounds were the hum of the car and the scrape of fabric on fabric as the men's lips met. Sherlock breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of John's aftershave, which was fast becoming his new favorite smell. He could feel the slight scrape of the stubble that was left by John's electric razor against his cheek. Warmth seemed to radiate from John's whole body, and Sherlock welcomed it.

The kiss broke as John pulled back slightly. He let out a hot breath against Sherlock's face. Although it had been a closed-mouth kiss, Sherlock's lips were puffy and slightly reddened from John's passion.

Sherlock insisted on paying for the cab ride as they pulled onto the familiar street. Once that was squared away, they headed upstairs into their shared flat.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Hi guys! I hope you're all enjoying this story so far. I'm really excited to get them through their first official date *squee*! I promise that at some point there will be more *ahem* adult themes, but I really want to build their relationship first. **

**Also, I've read on a couple of sites (mostly pinterest and tumblur) about a piece of head canon which I absolutely love and so incorporated it into the story. Basically it says that as a kid Sherlock would recite as many digits of pi as he could in order to deal with anxiety. I think this is something that is so characteristically Sherlock that I just had to put it in my story. **

**Let me know what you guys think. I've mapped out pretty much the whole story, and now its just about actually writing it. I am about halfway through with chapter 9 though, so update will be coming soon! **

**Thanks again for reading. **


	9. That's Why I Like It

A few days had passed since "dinner and a crime scene." Of course Sherlock had been correct about the murderer, who was now behind bars and awaiting trial. Unfortunately there hadn't been another case (at least not an interesting one) and Sherlock was restless.

"Sherlock, I have to go to work," John said on the 4th morning since the date. "Please just stop this."

Sherlock had been begging John all morning to stay home today."But John," he whined. "I'm so bored. We could go to the park and you could help me catalogue the leaves on the various trees, or help me with my study on travel patterns of English car salesmen."

"Why car salesmen? No, no forget it. I don't even know how I would be able to help you. All I do know is that I'm going to be late." John began looking around for his phone. Sherlock spotted it first and used the opportunity.

Long legs sprang as Sherlock grabbed the phone from John's arm chair. Having it safely in his palm he made a run for the kitchen and scrambled up onto the counter.

John only had time to see Sherlock rush past his peripheral vision. "For god's sake," John mumbled under his breath. Turning on his heel, he followed suit into the kitchen.

A loud crash resonated as John entered. He had to bite back laughter as he looked up at Sherlock who had climbed on top of the refrigerator, folding himself up more than John ever would have thought was humanly possible. "What the hell are you doing?" John finally asked when he trusted himself to speak.

"You can't reach up here," Sherlock said slowly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The refrigerator hummed underneath Sherlock's lanky frame. John stood still with his forefinger and thumb pressed around the bridge of his nose. He took several deep breaths before willing himself to speak. "You have my phone up there don't you."

The deep baritone of Sherlock's voice resounded with "Yes." John huffed out a breath. "You have a choice," Sherlock continued. "Leave without your phone, or don't leave at all." After a moment of quiet, John looked up to see Sherlock grinning wildly. In that moment John almost allowed Sherlock this victory. He looked back down at the floor to hide the smile that was threateningly tugging at the side of his lips.

"Or," John finally managed. "I could come up there and get it." He looked up and fixed Sherlock with the most convincing glare he could muster.

"Don't be ridiculous. Even if you get up on the counter, all I would have to do is hold your phone at arm's length, like so," Sherlock demonstrated.

"I could shove you off." John took a step toward Sherlock.

"And risk breaking your phone?"

"I could throw things at you."

The pout on Sherlock's face gave John a little thrill. He knew he had gained the upper hand. Sherlock knew the aim that John possessed and with a quick glance around the room he noted approximately 21 different objects that he could use as ammunition.

"Or better yet," John began with a sly smile. "I could take your laptop. In fact, I think that's what I will do. Enjoy your day Sherlock." Turning his back on the detective, John exited the door and made way to the living room. From behind him, John heard Sherlock climbing down from his perch.

When Sherlock came into the living room, he was greeted with an expectant, outstretched hand into which he pressed the phone.

"Thank you," John said as he pocketed the phone and headed for the door.

"John," Sherlock called, and of course the doctor stopped. "Would you...like to have dinner with me this evening?" Sherlock's voice caught a little and John could tell he was nervous. He smiled broadly as he turned to look at Sherlock standing awkwardly in front of him. _How could I ever stay mad at him?_

"Of course. Will you be making all the arrangements?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, but then straightened it again, trying not to look unsure of himself. "Of course."

"Alright then, text me the details will you?" John crossed the gap between them so that he stood inches from Sherlock. He looked up and smiled before pushing up onto his tip toes to press his lips against Sherlock's slightly pouting mouth. It was a short and chaste kiss, but it nevertheless left both men breathless and wanting more.

When he pulled back, John shook his head slightly. "I'll see you tonight," he said as he left the flat, all the while wishing that he had called in sick.

Sherlock's breathing didn't return to normal until after he heard the downstairs door open and shut. He went over to the window and looked out in time to see John hail a cab. As John began to climb into the car he turned round and waved up at Sherlock with a smile on his face.

Sherlock watched the car disappear into the early-morning London traffic. Then he sat down and powered on his laptop. _Time to do some research._

* * *

><p>John was late to work, as he had figured, and so received a stern scolding from the office manager who told him just how unprofessional his tardiness was. He had to put up with her rant for 15 minutes before he could actually get to his office and ask his nurse to escort in his first patient of the day.<p>

Stephany Neil stepped into John's office, and with that John's day began.

"It's simply the flu, it goes round this time of year. I'll write you a slip for some antibiotics." He smiled at Stephany and penned down the prescription. Internally he was cursing this time of year, he was sure almost all of the patients that he would see today would be cases of the flu. _Boring_. As Stephany shook his hand and left, John smiled to himself. _Sherlock's really rubbing off on me, isn't he?_

John had been right about the majority of cases having the common flu. He looked at the clock and decided to take an early lunch since he was ahead of schedule and his next appointment wasn't until 1:30.

"Mary," John said as he shrugged on his coat. "I'm going on my lunch hour. I'll be back soon." Mary, John's nurse, smiled and waved as he left the small office. Once on the street John pulled out his phone and typed a quick text to Sherlock.

**On my lunch break. **

A few minutes passed, and John had made it to the cafe across the street before Sherlock's reply buzzed in John's pocket.

**A bit early isn't it? Are you bored? -SH**

**Yes. How about you?**

**I have been busy conducting research.- SH**

**I thought you were going to start following your messages with your initials. -SH**

**I forgot. I only do it when I'm texting you. -JW**

**I know, that's what I like about it -SH**

**Research on what? - JW**

**Oh the usual. - SH**

**Did you get a case then? -JW**

**No. -SH**

John took a moment to order a sandwich and some crisps before he replied to Sherlock.

**Oh, this is for tonight isn't it? -JW**

**Obviously. -SH **

John could practically hear that word so commonly uttered by Sherlock. To John it sounded like rich melted chocolate and he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss Sherlock right after he's said it. He reread the message several times, melting at his imagination of its vocalization. His attention was broken, however, when a waitress came by with his food.

**Sherlock, you don't need to do research, this isn't a science experiment. -JW**

**I know. But I want it to be perfect.- SH**

John smiled at the sentiment that Sherlock rarely let show. He thought he must look like an idiot grinning down at his phone, but he didn't care. It took him a moment before he decided what to say next.

**Anything will be fine. As long as your there, it will be perfect. -JW**

John waited for the reply, anxious to see how Sherlock would respond. Five minutes later he finally got a response.

***you're -SH**

**What?- JW**

**The proper word is you're not your. -SH**

**Of course it is.- JW**

John finished his sandwich and left the cafe. He didn't want to go back to work, he wanted to return to the flat and listen to Sherlock play the violin, or go down to a crime scene and end the night by chasing some murderer through the alleys of London. But he had to earn his bread and butter somehow, so he crossed the street and headed back up to his office.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note: <strong>_

_**I'm working on this story as fast as I can, but I have school so updates are kind of sporadic. At this point I have 9 followers (YAY!), but no reviews yet. I would really appriciate it if you wonderful people could drop me a review so that I can get some feedback. Also, ideas are always welcome. As always, thanks for reading.**_

_**-Padfoot333**_


	10. I Wanted Tonight to be Perfect

Staring at the clock, John was attempting to will it to go faster. His office was relatively quiet, save for Mary's quick typing at her desk. The last appointments of the day had long since gone, and other doctors had decided to call it a night and head home. John and Mary were two of the remaining five people in the whole office.

While in his trance, John pulled his phone out of his pocket and reread the last message he'd received.

**Come home after work. You will have time to dress before we go out tonight. -SH**

The message made John smile. He was day dreaming about what date Sherlock had cooked up for them tonight. _Perhaps we'll be going to the theatre. Or possibly for a walk through the gardens. Hmm...I wonder._ John pocketed the phone once more and stared at the clock again, each tick resonating loud in his ears as if to taunt him with it's snail's pace.

When staring at the clock didn't make it go any faster, John decided to work on something to try and make the time pass. Charting was tedious and dull work, but it needed doing and John couldn't think of anything better to do. He rummaged through his bottom desk drawer and pulled out several patient files that needed his attention. _Can't put these off forever I suppose_.

Pen scratched on page after page as John filled in all the necessary information. He found a rhythm and the activity achieved it's purpose in fully distracting him. When he finished the last file from his drawer, John looked back over at the clock. To his delight he only had 20 minutes until the end of the work day.

"Mary," he called out as he stacked the files neatly on the corner of his desk. The short, stout, blonde nurse came in and smiled at the pile of completed charts.

"Finally decided to get to those I see Doctor Watson."

He smiled back and picked up the papers to hand to her. "Pretty slow day today, no better time to get these all filed away don't you think?"

"Quite a slow day I agree. I'll get these filed away for you Doctor Watson."

"Please, call me John." Smiling, he handed over the papers. "Don't worry about filing them till Monday. I think you and I both deserve to go home a bit early tonight."

"Well thank you John. I will see you Monday morning. Have a good time on your date tonight."

"How...How did you know about that?" John was baffled, he hadn't said anything.

"You've been grinning at you phone all day, while simultaneously practically counting the minutes until you can leave. And this is the first time I've ever seen you leave early. All of that pretty much screams 'date.'" She gave John a sly smile and exited his office, closing the door behind her using her heeled foot.

Excitedly, John shrugged on his coat and made his way down to the curb where he was able to hail a cab. "Baker Street please," he told his driver. After buckling in, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

**On my way home. -JW**

John eagerly stared at the screen waiting for a reply, but after 3 minutes with no sign of one he put the phone down on the seat next to him and began to wonder what Sherlock was up to. _I hope he's not too nervous. Maybe he's regretted asking me to go out tonight. Why isn't he responding? _A vibration against his leg, made John jump.

**Excited to see you.- SH**

John's heart fluttered, and at once his fears were dispelled.

* * *

><p>In the flat, Sherlock heard his phone go off with an alert that he'd received a text. He was in the shower, but expecting the message would probably be from John, he hurried out.<p>

Stepping out of the shower, Sherlock was a god to behold. He lazily slung a towel around his lower half, which sagged immediately and only hung on by his protruding hip bones. Water droplets were rolling slowly down his pale skin, leaving little paths behind them. The cool air of the flat hit him once he opened the bathroom door, and steam rose in tendrils off of his body.

Once in his bedroom, he retrieved the phone from his nightstand and read the message from John.

**On my way home. -JW**

This should have made him happy, but a quick look at the time told him that John was going to be home early. That meant that Sherlock had much less time to get ready. He began running on auto-pilot, finger racing across the keyboard to send a response to John.

**Excited to see you. -SH**

His long fingers ran through his dripping hair as he moved to his closet. He began searching through his large assortment of suits, trying to decide which one would look just right. Settling on a deep purple shirt, black trousers and jacket, he pulled them out and gently laid them out on the bed.

In his drawer, he retrieved a pair of pants and pulled them on after drying himself quickly with his towel. Next came socks. Then trousers. He looked again at the clock and calculated that John would be home in about 5 minutes, so he dashed up the stairs to John's bedroom. Once in he eagerly picked out an outfit for John to wear. He laid each piece of clothing on John's made bed and then practically tumbled down the stairs in his haste to continue his own grooming needs.

The door to the flat opened and John called out, "I'm home."

From Sherlock's closed bedroom door, John heard a reply. "Ah excellent. Please shower and then get ready to go. We have reservations so best not to dawdle. Everything should be ready for you."

John raised an eyebrow, wondering what could possibly be 'ready for him.' Nevertheless he headed to the bathroom and stripped down for a shower.

Sherlock had left a fresh towel out for him and had set out his razor. John smiled at the gesture, this was something Sherlock had never done for him before.

Baring in mind that they had reservations, John made his shower quick and efficient. He stepped out from under the steaming water, wishing he had five more minutes, but decided he didn't want to be the reason they were late tonight. He wrapped the towel around his waist. John was a short and muscular man. His tan skin glistened underneath the water beads. Unlike Sherlock's pristine skin, John's was marked with many a scar, most prominently the one left by the bullet he'd taken in Afghanistan.

John was clean shaven and his hair was almost dry by the time he made it up to his room to get dressed. He was surprised at the outfit clearly laid out for him on his bed. He eyed it almost suspiciously. It was one of the only suits John owned, preferring to wear comfortable sweaters and jumpers. _Must be going somewhere fancy. _

He decided to go the easy route and dress in the clothes Sherlock had picked out for him. Clean white shirt and simple black trousers and jacket. _I can handle this for one night if it will make Sherlock happy._

John walked down the stairs to the living room to find Sherlock pacing back and forth.

"Ah finally. Come on, we're going to be late." Sherlock handed John his coat and steered him out of the flat.

"Sorry, where are we going?" John could sense the urgency in Sherlock, but what was causing it, he couldn't be certain.

"I told you we have diner reservations. Ah, there's our ride now." A large black sedan had pulled up and Sherlock opened the back door, motioning for John to get in.

"Mycroft?" John asked when Sherlock was seated next to him.

"I needed more reliable transportation than cabs for our plans tonight." Sherlock's eyes frantically darted out the window and back down to his phone. John couldn't read what was on the screen, but he decided to chalk this behavior up to nervousness.

The car pulled into the parking lot of a brightly lit, and packed Indian restaurant. The driver stopped the car in front of the main entrance to let the two men out.

"7:15, correct Mr. Holmes?" The driver asked as Sherlock was exiting the vehicle.

"Yes, and not even a minute late." Sherlock's voice was low, but John could easily still hear him. _What on earth has gotten into him tonight?_

Sherlock offered John his arm and escorted him into the restaurant.

"Good evening," said a young hostess. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, table for 2. Holmes."

The young girl poured over the list, and John could feel Sherlock's muscles slowly tensing the longer she looked at the paper.

"Just one moment sir." The girl stepped away and began talking to a much older gentleman a few feet off. Sherlock was bristling next to John, but was keeping quiet for the time being. "So sorry sir," the girl began as she returned to her station. "It appears that someone had misspelled your name. Right this way gentlemen." She smiled and led them off into the middle of the crowded dinning room.

The other patrons were all finely dressed, men in suits and women in cocktail dresses. The whole place had an air of wealth to it. The sophistication and class where intimidating John a bit, and he was suddenly very grateful that Sherlock had picked out his outfit for him.

Up on a raised stage at the far end of the restaurant, a band was playing traditional Indian music, but it was very difficult to hear over the cacophony of silverware clanking, drinks being slurped, and conversations carrying on.

"I didn't expect it to be this busy," Sherlock said to John as they both looked around.

"It's alright. It's a nice place. Bet the curry here is amazing." John reached his hand across the table and placed it gently on top of Sherlock's.

A few moments later a waiter approached the table and offered the men a glass of wine to start off their evening. Sherlock asked for the best in house sending the man quickly away.

"So, how was your day?" John attempted small talk, but Sherlock seemed distracted, he kept glancing around the room, practically glaring at some particularly loud guests. "Sherlock?"

"Sorry, what? I can barely hear you over this din." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he spoke the last word.

"I asked how your day was."

"Fine." Sherlock's short, clipped answer made John's stomach turn. _What is going on?_

"Are we here...on a case?" John asked after a few moments of rather uncomfortable silence between them.

"Of course not John, why would you think that?"

"You just seem really distracted, that's all." John knew something was bothering Sherlock. _Is he bored? Is he bored with me?_

"Just very perturbed by all this noise. How was your day?" Sherlock was willing himself to calm down, but how could they ever be expected to enjoy themselves in such a chaotic situation?

* * *

><p>Their waiter returned with there order, which had taken 23 minutes to be brought out (Sherlock had timed it.) John's face fell ever so slightly when his plate was set in front of him. The change in his expression was so minute that no one should have ever been able to catch it, but of course Sherlock did.<p>

"What is it John?" The waiter had been just about to leave, but stopped at Sherlock's words.

John was surprised, he hadn't really even registered what the problem was himself yet. "It's fine," he finally managed.

"No it isn't, what is it?"

"It's the wrong curry. But it's fine really." He looked at the waiter and tried to assure him that he was not upset, but Sherlock was having none of that.

"It's not fine John. Please take this back to the kitchen and return with the proper food. And don't take your sweet time please." Sherlock's tone towards the waiter was icy to say the very least.

The waiter apologized profusely and hurried off the the kitchen to fix the mistake.

"Sherlock, you know I'm not picky. I would have been fine with that one. It really wasn't that big of a deal." Sherlock just rolled his eyes at John's statement.

Five minutes had passed with no sign of their waiter. Sherlock hadn't touched his own food yet, preferring to wait until John got his. All the while, he was getting more and more anxious about how long this dinner was taking.

"Sherlock, you can start eating without me. Your food will be cold if you don't start eating it." John was trying to calm the obviously flustered genius. But nothing he tried seemed to work.

Finally, after waiting an additional 3 minutes, the waiter brought out the correct dish and apologized again for the mix up.

They began eating, and John had been right about the curry. It was excellent. The spice level was perfect for his taste, and as he ate bite after bite he felt like he was in paradise.

But Sherlock's mood was proving to be trouble in paradise. A manager was making rounds to each table to greet his guests. John groaned a little when he approached their table and asked Sherlock how their visit had been this evening.

"Truly, this has been a disappointment." Sherlock had barely touched his food, but no longer felt he had the appetite to eat.

"I am so sorry to hear that sir. What has been the problem?"

"Where to begin? We were held up by a mistake on your reservations list. The noise in here is atrocious, and completely hinders conversation. The speed of service was remarkably slow. And when we finally did get our meals, his was wrong." Sherlock was using his deducing voice. It's speed was rapid, his breath shallow, and the last word came out with a bite to it.

"I am so sorry sir. Let me remove his meal from your bill? Will that help to absolve the situation?" The manager was fidgeting under Sherlock's scrupulous gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"Money is not the problem. The whole dinner experience has been ruined and you want to attempt to fix it by removing a simple charge?"

"Sherlock, please." John was aware that a few people were staring now, and all he wanted to do was get out of here.

"I am so sorry that we have ruined your evening. Your dinner is on the house tonight." The manager offered a slight bow to Sherlock, all the while wringing his hands together.

"That's really not necessary," John chimed in, feeling extremely ashamed that all of this had been done because of his meal being wrong.

"It is my pleasure sir. Anything to make up for our mistakes here tonight. We hope to see you again some other time."

"I wouldn't count on it," Sherlock mumbled as the manager slinked away to tell the waiter not to give the men a bill.

* * *

><p>Back in the car, Sherlock seemed a bit more relaxed, although he did keep checking his phone.<p>

"For what it's worth, the curry there was delicious," John said, with the intention of making Sherlock laugh. But this didn't make Sherlock laugh. He did, however, reach over and take John's hand in his own.

The rest of the car ride was silence. John looked out the window and saw that they were turning into the parking lot of a cinema. _This should be fine. He can relax while watching a movie certainly. _

Sherlock looked at John with a smile as they walked, hand in hand into the lobby of the cinema. _Smiling, that's a good sign_. Sherlock left John for a moment to pick up his pre-purchased tickets for a movie he had thought they'd both enjoy. When he returned to John he asked "Mystery movie alright with you I hope?"

John smiled back. "Of course. But you know, the entire time I'm going to be thinking how you could have figured it out within the first five minutes." They walked towards the theatre door numbered 6. They had made great timing, and just found their seats when the lights began to dim.

John raised the arm rest from between them and cuddled up next to Sherlock, who placed his arm around the doctor's shoulders. The lights went out and the trailers began.

Sherlock had only accounted for 5 trailers, and there had been 8. This would put them at least 15 minutes late. _At least!_ He quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. The tiny screen blazed white, causing a few people to groan behind him. John tried to snuggle closer, hoping to discourage Sherlock's apparent fixation on his mobile.

Sherlock wasn't focusing on the movie, it had only taken him 4 minutes to figure out the entire plot and now he was bored. Bored and anxious about the time. He glanced down at John, who was eagerly watching the screen, and decided to sneak another peak at the time on his phone.

Again, the people seated behind Sherlock were momentarily blinded by the flash of white light from the phone's screen. John elbowed Sherlock in the side, hoping he would get the point and NOT do it again. Unfortunately this was not the case. Sherlock checked the time again 11 minutes later, and then again 4 minutes after that.

The people behind them were audibly upset, and to John's horror, a theatre attendant came up to Sherlock and asked him to step out for a moment.

Even in the dark, John could see the confused look on Sherlock's face, so he pushed him up and walked out behind him and the man from the theatre.

In the hall the attendant addressed Sherlock. "Sir, it is a distraction and an interruption to use mobile phones in the movie. It's unfair to the other moviegoers, and our cinema simply does not tolerate it. We've received multiple complaints and we are going to have to ask you to leave."

Sherlock fixed the man with a deadly gaze. "You expect me to leave?"

"Yes sir, it's company policy."

"You are a waste of my time. I don't want to stand here and talk to an imbecile. Get me your manager."

"I am the manager. Please, don't make me call security."

"Come on Sherlock, let's just go." John was exhausted at this point. Whatever had put Sherlock on edge, must be steadily growing worse. The last thing they needed was to be arrested tonight. He took Sherlock's hand firmly in his and walked decisively toward the exit. Sherlock followed, thankfully, with little resistance.

Outside the theatre, they had to bide their time waiting for Mycroft's driver to return, he hadn't expected them out of the movie for at least another 45 minutes.

"Are you sure everything's alright Sherlock?" John's voice was barely more than a whisper. He didn't want to further provoke Sherlock.

"Aside from the restaurant fiasco and being thrown out of the movie, yes everything is great." Sherlock's sarcasm was usually sexy to John, but that was because it was usually directed at someone else.

"Let's just go home Sherlock," John finally said after he'd sat in silence for a few moments watching Sherlock pace the pavement.

"But our night is not over." Sherlock looked down at John and saw the tired expression he wore. He sank down on the bench next to John. "Why do you want to go home?"

"Because it's supposed to be fun Sherlock. I don't know what your problem is tonight, but you are being more of a hard-ass than I've ever seen you. At first I thought you were just nervous, but now I'm not so sure what to think. That waiter probably spit in my food. I've spent less time talking to you tonight than you have spent talking to other people. And we've been thrown out of the cinema. I don't even get to find out who the murderer was."

"There was no murderer. She's alive and living in Australia. She's been sending the flowers."

"Thanks for spoiling it," John said, rolling his eyes "Why have you been acting like this tonight?"

"I...I wanted tonight to be...perfect." Sherlock hung his head low, his curls falling forward to shield his face.

"Sherlock..." John placed his hand against Sherlock's back. "I know you wanted it to be perfect. But I told you earlier, not to stress this much about it. We could have gone anywhere tonight and I would have been happy as long as it was with you. Hell, we could have stayed in, ordered take-away and watched crap telly and it would have been fine. Don't overthink this Sherlock. Just be yourself."

John continued to rub Sherlocks back until he spotted their lift.

"Would you be willing to engage in the final activity of the evening with me? I will do my best to simply enjoy the experience."

John couldn't help but smile. "I guess I'll give you another chance. But you better have fun with this one."

The car brought them to a grand park, lit all over with ornate street lamps. Several people were walking through the greenery, and a little ways of, John could see one of those carriage-for-hires.

Sherlock took John's hand and led him in the direction of the carriage. As they closed the distance, John's heart began to pound with excitement. He had always wanted to take one of these rides, and now he was finally going to, and in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was talking to the driver, so John walked up to the horse, a huge brown and white Clydesdale, and began stroking his muscled chest. The horse nickered slightly at John's touch. "You are such a beauty, aren't you?" John said to the horse as he stroked it's muzzle. "Yes, such a beauty. What's your name huh?" John looked at the harness around the horse's front and spotted, what he assumed was, the horse's name etched into the leather. "Spirit. What a wonderful name. You really are fantastic."

"Coming John?" Sherlock was looking quizzically at John. He had never really taken John for an animal lover. Maybe he could like dogs, even cats, but horses? That was a surprise even to Sherlock.

With a final pat on Spirit's muzzle, John climbed into the carriage and cuddled up next to Sherlock. The driver gave them a blanket to keep them warm, and then climbed up into his seat, and began the ride.

Sherlock was so warm and comfortable next to John that he was perfectly at ease, and his mind seemed quieter. He was stroking John's arm and he would lean down ever now and again to place a kiss on the top of John's head.

The autumn air was crisp, but not cold. John had never thought anything like this could ever happen to him. In a grip of romance and passion, he pulled himself up so that he was looking Sherlock in the eye and then threw himself into a kiss.

Their lips met, and both men, though exhausted, had been waiting for a moment like this for the past few days. Much like their first kiss, this one was controlled by passion. Their lips crashed together with no rhythm. John ran his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip, and he felt Sherlock's mouth open ever so slightly in response. But when John didn't press into the opening, Sherlock tried his hand at opening John's mouth instead.

Replicating John's licking motion, Sherlock was delighted by the little moan it elicited from John, and the opening of John's mouth to Sherlock's tongue. He pushed inside that mouth, wanting to taste everything about John. His tongue explored, and John's tongue did little to get in the way. This was new territory for Sherlock, and John wanted him to be able to explore and get the feel for it all on his own.

Sherlock began pulling away from the kiss, but John stopped him by biting down on Sherlock's plump lower-lip. Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned at the stimulation. _Such a small amount of contact area, but the feeling sends shivers down my spine. This is a high, the likes of which I've never seen. _

John slowly released Sherlock's lip from his bite. Then he settled back down, cuddling with his date once more.

"See what I mean Sherlock? It's about the romance. It's about having fun."

Sherlock could only hum in agreement.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_**So longest chapter so far. :) I hope you all enjoy it. I really wanted to show Sherlock really overthinking their date, to the point in which it became unbearable to John. Keep in mind that Sherlock is completely new to all of these experiences. I have to thank my friend Johnnie once again for story inspiration and help in deciding on which way to go with this part of the story. **_

_**As always, I would love if you could leave me a review. Thanks to Larissa Baptista, MaximumNovak, Shiloh26, ZurethaMetal, dracomalfoylover666, fangirlobsessive, firekeeper75, imaginair101, HontePlonte, Wheeze121, clara56, lilithanders and mayaamendoza for favoriting and following. And a special thanks to fangirlobsessive and MaximumNovak for leaving me reviews. **_


	11. Takeaway and Crap Telly

Monday morning dawned bright and early. When John awoke, he found the flat empty and silent. Sherlock had been called onto a case last night, so John assumed that he simply hadn't made it home yet.

John tried not to worry too much about what Sherlock was doing, and what kind of trouble he was getting himself into. Instead John made quick work of getting ready and leaving the flat, heading in the direction of work.

When he entered the office, he was immediately greeted by Mary. She wore a light pink button-down shirt with long sleeves, a dark brown pencil skirt, skin coloured stockings, and dark brown heels. Her hair was neatly combed in it's usual easy-style. John had always admired her short-hair, it was very practical.

As he was shrugging off his coat, Mary brought over a cup of coffee that she had just made in the employee lounge. She was smiling, looking John up and down.

"Thank you Mary," John said as he took the warm mug. He could tell by the colour of the liquid that she'd already added his cream and sugar. "Good weekend?"

"Pretty boring actually. I bet yours was considerably more exciting." She raised her brow suggestively, and John could feel a little warmth creep into his cheeks. "How the date go?"

Memories from Friday night's escapade flooded John's mind. He started to chuckle to himself thinking about nearly having security called on them in the cinema.

"Come on now, what's so funny?" Mary peered at him from over her own coffee mug, willing him to spill all the dirty little secrets.

"Well, it was kind of difficult at first... But it turned out really wonderful in the end." The memory of Sherlock's warm body pressed against his own in the horse-drawn carriage made John's heart flutter as he recalled it.

"Difficult? How can a date be difficult?"

John wondered if he should be confiding his personal experiences with Mary, but at the same time, he was utterly thrilled to be able to share the romantic details of the date with someone at all. "Well uh...We were really stressed for time, the restaurant brought me the wrong curry, then we had to...leave the cinema."

Mary's eyebrows both shot up at the last detail John had provided. John couldn't help but chuckle at how ridiculous it all sounded in hindsight. Mary began chuckling too. Then she asked, "Oh God, what did Sherlock do to get you thrown out of a movie theatre?"

The laughter died in John's throat, his mouth slightly agape. He began mentally rewinding the whole conversation trying to recall what indication he'd given to the identity of his date. He couldn't think of a single one, he hadn't even mentioned gender. It wasn't that he was worried about what people would say, but rather, this relationship was still in its infancy and was therefore rather delicate. He'd wanted to wait until they got more established as a couple before deciding to go public.

After a moment spent of trying to collect his thoughts, John remembered that Mary had asked him a question, which meant that he was supposed to respond. "He uh...he kept using his mobile. I guess a couple people complained."

"Leave it to Sherlock to turn dinner and a movie into a disaster." Mary was chuckling still and shaking her head slightly. But John was only giving a half-hearted laugh because he was bristling at her assumption that Sherlock had ruined their date. Sure, it had been stressful at first, but Sherlock's intentions had been good. Not to mention, the plans he had made were nice, they were just poorly executed.

"You should meet him sometime," John said as Mary's laughing abated. "You seem to have a lot in common."

"Really? How so?"

"You both like to deduce answers to your own questions before you even ask them. How did you know it was Sherlock anyway?"

"John, you live with _that_ exquisite creature for long enough, it doesn't matter what you were before, you'll fall for him eventually. If you don't kill him first that is. Or at least that's what I've gathered from reading about him on your blog."

"I didn't know you read my blog." Color tinted his cheeks once again. He hadn't told anyone at his office about the blog because he'd been too embarrassed. But, she had gotten her description of Sherlock as exquisite right.

"Oh yeah. Several of the nurses here do. Lots of them have enormous crushes on Sherlock. I can't say I'd be able to live with the man, but he is downright gorgeous. You're a lucky man John." Mary was giggling.

"Yes I am," John mumbled fondly.

The conversation was cut short by another doctor making his way into the surgery. After a brief "good morning" John turned round and headed into his office.

He sat at his desk, playing through Friday night over and over again while he waited for the first patient of the day.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stumbled back into the flat around 1:30 in the afternoon. He was exhausted. He had chased down a suspect for over 3 miles, finally caught the man, only to have one of Lestrade's officers bullocks it up, meaning Sherlock had to go chasing the man down again. He'd probably ran a good 5 or 6 miles total last night, plus he'd nearly been hit by a car twice.<p>

He made his way to his bedroom, only to find Mrs. Hudson in there, and no sheets on his bed.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm just doing your wash." She set the basket down and looked Sherlock over. "My goodness Sherlock, you look horrible. When was the last time you slept?"

"Don't remember." Sherlock could hardly lift his head, and when he shrugged out of his long wool coat, it landed on the floor and he just left it there.

"I'm sorry dear, your bedding won't be done for at least another hour."

" 's alright. I'mm sleep on the couch." Sherlock was turning to head back into the living room, but Mrs. Hudson caught him by the arm.

"Sherlock, you need more room to get comfortable. I'm sure John wouldn't mind it you took a nap in his bed, just this once." Even though she was concerned and fretting over Sherlock, she couldn't help the small twinge of a smile at her cheeks when she thought how little indeed John would mind, and how this probably wasn't the first nor would it be the only time.

"Okay..." Sherlock left her standing there and started up the stairs towards John's room, shedding his button-down shirt on the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "I'm not your bloody housekeeper," she mumbled, but she picked his fallen clothes up off the floor anyway, and went back downstairs to finish washing his bedding.

* * *

><p>John was on his lunch break, so he decided now would be a good time to text Sherlock and see what he was up to.<p>

**Gotten back to 221? -JW**

John was starting to worry after 5 mintues of no reply. Sherlock was almost always monitoring his phone, and he hardly ever ignored a text, especially from John.

**Sherlock? -JW**

A few moments later, to John's relief, a reply came through.

**Sleping Jon. Yes. home. -SJ**

John rolled his eyes at the horrendous text, Sherlock must be exhausted.

**Sorry I woke you. Get back to sleep. I'll pick up Thai on the way home tonight. - JW**

**No.**

**No? Okay, what do you want for dinner then? - JW**

**Date toniht. Me and ou-SH**

**Sherlock, you seem really tired, why don't we go out tomorrow night instead? -JW**

**No. TONIGHt -SH**

**Text me when you're actually awake and then we'll discuss it. -JW**

**Ok -SH**

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up at 5:00pm feeling a little rested. He'd dreamt that he was texting John. Thinking about he, he realized he hadn't actually talked to John since last night, so he pulled out his mobile to text him. He was mortified to realize that what he thought had been a dream, had actually occurred. He'd asked John out on a date. He sat there for a long while, reading over the conversation. John had suggested going out tomorrow since Sherlock was so tired, but Sherlock, even in his sleep had been immovably stubborn.<p>

**John, what time will you be finished with work? -SH**

**Bout 6pm. Did you have a nice nap? -JW**

**Yes. Good, so are we still on for tonight? -SH**

**Are you sure Sherlock. If you're still tired we don't have to do it tonight. -JW**

Sherlock bristled. Was John trying to subtly say that he didn't want to go on another date with him? _Maybe I ruined the last one so badly that he doesn't want to go on another one._ That thought caused a feeling a nausea to set into his stomach.

**I'm fully awake and alert. So, shall we?- SH**

**I forget you're not like the rest of us and can live off of only 3 hours of sleep a day. Sure, I'd love to. -JW**

Relief set in. John was okay with going on another date with him. But then Sherlock realized he had no idea what to plan. They'd just gone to a movie on Friday, besides nothing else looked acceptable to Sherlock anyway. Sherlock didn't want to risk another restaurant fiasco, and another carriage-ride would be just plain unoriginal. _Now what?_

Sherlock sat down on his arm chair in the living room and let his eyes flutter closed. He opened the grand doors to his mind palace and began searching in his John room.

_"I know you wanted it to be perfect. But I told you earlier, not to stress this much about it. We could have gone anywhere tonight and I would have been happy as long as it was with you. Hell, we could have stayed in, ordered take-away and watched crap telly and it would have been fine. Don't overthink this Sherlock. Just be yourself."_ He had been listening to previous conversations when this one, from Friday night, had come up. His eyes popped open and his mouth formed a perfect "oh." _This is good_, he thought.

* * *

><p>John sat in a cab, watching rain streak down the windows, while it wound it's way through London's traffic toward Baker Street. He'd sent Sherlock a message, letting him know he was on his way home. Truth be told, John was a little anxious about what to expect tonight. He was excited to see Sherlock, and going out on a date would be wonderful, but after the last time, he just hoped Sherlock hadn't over-thought this date too.<p>

After paying the cabbie, John took the stairs up to the flat a bit quicker than usual. He fumbled slightly for his key, but before he got a chance to slide the ridged metal into the keyhole, Sherlock had opened the door and was smiling down at him.

John's breath was knocked out of him at the sight. Sherlock had rearranged the furniture, leaving a large open space on the floor in front of the telly, which he had covered in all sorts of pillows. John could smell his favorite Pad Thai from a take away down the street, which he spotted set out on a mat in front of the cushions. The only light being cast around the room was from candles, hundreds of them. Sherlock had placed a flickering candle on any flat surface he could find, and the effect was marvelous.

"How was work?" Sherlock asked. John gaped up at him. He could see a bit on anxiousness tracing the edges of Sherlock's eyes.

"It was uh...it was good. Sherlock this is...Wow." John couldn't find the words. He stepped tentatively into the flat and began to ease out of his jacket. Sherlock was behind him before he could realize and was helping the jacket come off. Sherlock hung up the rain dampened coat on the peg and then nodded towards John's feet, indicating that he should take off his shoes.

John followed Sherlock, still looking all around the barely-recognizable flat, and sat down in the heap of pillows.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock's voice was low, and the uncertainty in it, brought John's focus immediately to him.

"It's wonderful Sherlock. More than I could have ever hoped for." John looked at Sherlock fully for the first time since he'd gotten home. Sherlock was wearing a tight button-down made of dark blue satin. His trousers were black, but today he wore somewhat looser ones, perhaps because of the anticipation of sitting on the floor. He was bare foot, and John could smell the recent shower-scent still clinging to him. But John was most fascinated with Sherlock's face. It looked haunting in the constantly shifting light of the candles. His sharp cheekbones cast eerily beautiful shadows down his face, and his eyes seemed almost crystal in the low light. He skin radiated the warm orange glow, and John had never been so enthralled with anyone before.

"I picked up takeaway. And I thought we could watch some telly." Sherlock smiled shyly and John's heart felt like it was about to burst from joy.

"It sounds wonderful. I'm starving."

* * *

><p>Letting Sherlock watch <em>Britain's Got Talent<em> had been a mistake. They had finished their food and were snuggled close, seated on the pillows with their backs resting against the couch. But Sherlock kept leaning forward into the TV and shouting criticisms and the participants and judges alike. Some of his comments were so icy that it had caused John to joke, "They should replace Simon with you."

Sherlock hadn't seen the humor though. "Why would they get rid of the only decent judge they've got?" John was rolling his eyes and Sherlock was sneering at the newest participant, when a flash of lightening lit up the flat and then as the thunder clap followed, the TV went off.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_**Sorry it's taken so long for this update. For some reason I had a really hard time writing the opening to this chapter. For those of you that are waiting for things to get a little more...ahem...heated, please stay tuned for the next chapter. Things are going to get steamy. **_

_**Also, if you could please review, I would be extra happy. Thanks for reading everyone!**_


	12. Experimenting with Contact

**Author's Note:**

**This is the first adult chapter of this story which means I will be changing the rating so if you found this fic under the T rating, just know it will no longer show up there. I hope you enjoy this 3,000 words of what I hope is a good balance of romance and smut. Please please leave me a review. I'm new to smut so I'm not sure if this any good. **

**Of course, a note of caution. Language and sexual content are in this chapter. If you are uncomfortable with this, stop reading here. If you've been enjoying my story so far and really want to read it but don't want to read the sexy stuff, this chapter doesn't include any major plot points, so you could skip it if you really wanted to without missing out on a lot. **

**Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

><p>"Wait, what?" Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, searching for the culprit who switched off his new-found show. <em>Leave it to the world's only consulting detective to not realize that a storm has caused a power outage,<em> John thought, and chuckled to himself.

Sherlock must have finally put the pieces together, because he fell back against the couch with a huff. He crossed his arm tightly across his chest and made another noise of disapproval. John couldn't help but thinking how much this posture was making Sherlock look like an enormous child.

John moved onto his knees with the intention of getting up to clear away the remnants of their supper. But Sherlock reached out his hand quickly and grabbed John by the wrist. "If the power hadn't gone out we would still be watching telly." John looked puzzled at Sherlock's statement, knowing how much Sherlock hated it when other people pointed out the obvious. John slowly nodded as a response. "Can we stay here a while longer?" Sherlock's eyes looked imploringly up at John. "I'm comfortable."

The thought that John himself was making Sherlock want to cuddle and watch reality shows sent John's self-confidence through the roof. He smiled down at Sherlock, and returned to his seated position, letting Sherlock nuzzle into his chest.

The quiet in the flat was to John's liking, the only noises he could hear were the patter of rain, the occasional clap of thunder, and Sherlock's slow and deep breathing. He felt content and so let his head loll back onto the couch as he pressed his hand into the ebony curls of Sherlock's hair. He repeatedly carded his hand through the luxurious mane, as the last remainder of the small voice that kept trying to tell him he wasn't gay was effectively told to sod off.

Sherlock was pressing up into the touch and, after a few strokes, he chanced a look up at John through the hair that had fallen over his face. The candles were a brilliant idea. He was staring at the endless patterns of highlights and shadows that were dancing across John's tan face. The movements were random, and cast an endless combination of shapes on all the beautiful skin of John's face. Sherlocks eyes were grazing around the rest of John's body, when he was suddenly entranced by the ripples being sent through the fabric of John's jumper each time he stroked Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock suddenly had a burning desire to see how the movement looked when the skin was bare. His immediate thought was to move and pull John's jumper off. But he hesitated wondering how John would respond to that. _Perhaps I could get him to comply if I acted with a bit more...tact._

Sherlock gently angled his body so he could more easily snake his arm around John's waist. At the hollow of John's back, he began rubbing in small circles over the fabric. He felt John push ever so slightly into the touch, and saw this as a sign of encouragement. He eased his hand under the hem of John's jumper and placed his palm flat against the skin he found there. John let out a small gasp, as Sherlock's hand was rather cold.

Sherlock resumed the gentle rotation of his hand, all the while watching John's face, trying to determine his thoughts. He turned even more into John, almost to the point of being on top of him and placed his other hand on John's side on top of the fabric. John let out a little whine and his hand had stopped moving in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock began to tug gently on the jumper with his hand that rested on John's side.

John lazily opened his eyes to see Sherlock gazing at him, those blue eyes sharp but uncertain. John understood the unspoken question and nodded slightly, leaning forward to allow Sherlock to more easily remove the barrier of fabric.

When John was free of his jumper, Sherlock settled back into his original position. "Would you resume your previous movements John?" Sherlock asked.

John was slightly confused, but obliged nonetheless. He replaced his hand on top of Sherlock's head, pulling the curls straight between his fingers. He let his head rest on the couch once again.

Sherlock watched intensely as the muscles in John's arm tightened and slackened. Each movement sent a ripple across the taut, tan flesh. Soon, however, watching wasn't enough. He slowly raised his hand and placed his fingertips against the forearm. John shuddered slightly at the touch, but otherwise made no indication of a desire to have Sherlock stop.

Sherlock let his fingers sit still for a moment, but then began tracing them along the skin, tracing different patterns, testing the difference of areas depending on the stage of movement the muscle was in. Finally, he placed his whole palm up against John's wrist, moving along with John.

Slowly, desire was creeping into Sherlock. He felt it first as a warming sensation, but then he realized his heart rate was increasing and he could see all the details of John more sharply. He wanted nothing more at this moment to press his full body against John. But again he worried his approach my not be welcome. He decided on a more subtle mode of contact.

John noticed Sherlock's hand fall away from his arm, but continued stroking Sherlock's hair anyway. His eyes fluttered open when he felt Sherlock press his fingers gently on the blossom of scar tissue on his shoulder. He looked down at Sherlock, who looked up at him in return. Sherlock's very gaze seemed to be asking permission, and John nodded again. This time however, John watched as Sherlock felt all over the scar.

John's heart raced as Sherlock inclined his head forward to press his lips to the marred flesh he had been running his hands all over. John closed his eyes tight at the contact, and even though he was trying not to, he found that his whole body was tensing.

Sherlock noticed too, because he pulled his head back and placed his lips against John's throat instead. He nuzzled against that warm skin until he felt John relax. Then he slowly slid his tongue out from between his lips, letting just the tip of it glide across the sensitive skin. John's mouth had fallen agape and he let out a small, involuntary groan. Sherlock took this as a good sign and so began to lick with more broad strokes.

As John was growing more aroused by the contact, he tilted his head to the side, giving Sherlock more access. This sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine, and he shifted so that he was now straddling John. He sucked hard at the skin under his lips. He knew it would leave a mark, but he didn't mind, and judging by the sounds John was making, he didn't care either. After a few moments of suckling, Sherlock leaned back and looked at John's hazel eyes.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice low and husky. "Is this what you want?"

Sherlock's silence rang in John's ears. The only sound that overpowered it was the pounding of John's heart in anticipation.

"I don't know," Sherlock finally said slowly, almost testing the words. He watched John closely, looking for clues on how to proceed.

John swallowed hard, trying to gather some courage before asking, "Have you done anything like this before?"

"I'm not a blushing virgin John," Sherlock quickly responded, his tone slightly too bitter. "I have experimented with physical contact before. The novelty of this experience is due to the fact that I am...emotionally involved."

John let those words sink in. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, trying to convey his own feelings. But knowing Sherlock wasn't good at picking up on subtle emotional cues, he decided it would be best to just be open and honest. "This is a novel experience for me too Sherlock. I care about you, a lot actually, emotionally involved doesn't even begin to cover it. But I've also never been with...another man before."

"Do you not want to proceed?" Sherlock was casting his gaze down. The idea that John wouldn't enjoy this because Sherlock was a man was hurtful.

"God no, Sherlock. Of course I want to continue. I'm not saying that I don't want to be with another man, I'm just trying to say this is new to me too. Honestly, I'm so nervous I feel like a virgin again."

Sherlock let out a laugh. It wasn't out of discomfort or tension, it was a genuine laugh and it was infectious. They laughed and laughed until they both had tears in their eyes and stitches in their sides. Sherlock pressed his chest against John's and placed his lips to John's. They were both breathless from laughter, but that didn't stop them from kissing passionately.

When John finally pulled back from the kiss he was light headed from lack of oxygen and a heavy desire to see more of Sherlock. He reached forward tentatively and eased the top button of Sherlock's dress shirt open. Sherlock's eyes began to shimmer, practically glowing with lust. He let a wicked smile cross his face. At seeing that smile, John sped up the removal of Sherlock's tight shirt.

The shirt was carelessly tossed aside and Sherlock was pressing his bare chest against John's. Their skin was warm, and John reclaimed Sherlock's mouth, placing his hand firmly on the back of Sherlock's head. Their tongues were intertwining, tasting each other, and breathing the same oxygen. John nipped down playfully on Sherlock's lower lip and was rewarded with a delicious growl of pleasure passing from Sherlock's mouth into his own.

Reflexively, Sherlock began lazily grinding his pelvis against John, letting the friction build and build. John could feel the tension of Sherlock's desire against his thigh. He reached around Sherlock and place his hands firmly on his bottom, pulling Sherlock closer to him as he ground upwards into Sherlocks groin.

Moment's passed like this, with Sherlock and John snogging like teenagers, until finally Sherlock pulled aways and leaned back. John's pulse was skyrocketing at the sight of the beautiful man, reaching for his zipper.

Sherlock gently pulled the metal zipper of John's trousers down, and then popped open the top button. He looked back at John, who was breathing heavily and watching intently. Sherlock hooked his two long index fingers in the waistband of John's trousers and gently tugged on them. John lifted his hips slightly, allowing Sherlock to remove them more easily. Once the trousers were tossed to the side, Sherlock looked over John sitting underneath him in only his pants. Sherlock's hands slipped slowly down to his own zipper, but John reached up and took both his wrists in hand.

"That's for me to do," John said. The thought sent a spike of pleasure through Sherlock. John reached forward and painfully slowly he dragged the zipper down. He paused, then lovingly popped the button. He traced Sherlock's bare skin along the top of the waistband before hooking his fingers under it. Sherlock slid gracefully out of the black fabric, and John threw the trousers unceremoniously across the room before looking Sherlock up and down, admiring his handy work. John could easily see the outline of Sherlock's erection, only being held back by the thin material of his pants.

John's hand found its way onto Sherlock's chest. He placed it over Sherlock's heart, feeling it pound underneath. "You are...magnificent," John told Sherlock in the sexiest voice he could muster. "Truly gorgeous."

Sherlock's sharp cheeks tinted with a slight flush of pink. He was used to John complimenting his intellect, but this was something different all together.

John's hand began to trail down the midline of Sherlock's torso, marveling at how smooth and warm the skin was. It was as if Sherlock had never had a single scratch laid on him. When John's hand reached Sherlock's pelvis, he heard Sherlock's breath hitch. "Alright?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he violently shook his head 'yes,' so John gently pulled on the pants.

The cool air of the flat hit Sherlock's arousal, causing him to pull in a sharp breath and push his hips closer to John. He was bare before John, he wanted to see what John was going to do, but at the same time, he was too nervous to open his eyes.

John was marveling at the sight in front of him. He was immediately reminded of ancient Greek sculptures of the gods. Sherlock's beautiful body was taking John's breath away. John's fingers traced the protruding hip bones, following their curve down toward Sherlock's eager groin. He traced the edge of Sherlock pubic hair, letting it tickle against his fingers. Then he pressed his fingertips into that mess of dark hair, curly and soft like the ones of Sherlock's head. John tugged at the hair slightly, causing Sherlock to arch his back even more. John knew he was teasing Sherlock, but he wanted nothing more than to take this slow. He wanted to see and feel and smell and taste every inch of Sherlock, and savor it as he did so.

"John please," Sherlock whined at John was stroking his hip bones again. Sherlock's back was arched so far that he could almost rest his head on his heels. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his breathing was unsteady.

When John heard Sherlock say his name in the sinfully deep voice, he couldn't hold back any longer. He stroked down the left hip bone one last time, but this time he followed the curve all the way into the groin, where he took Sherlock in his hand.

Sherlock let out a groan, pulled his hips back slightly, then pressed them forward again. John was amazed at how Sherlock was turning to putty in his hands. He was dizzy with the control, the desire, and the extreme attraction.

Moving his fist incrementally along Sherlock's shaft, John asked "Is this what you want?"

Sherlock panted and nodded his thrown-back head.

"Tell me," John said, moving his hand achingly slow again.

"Yes." Sherlock was supporting himself with his hands on the floor beside John's legs, and John could see the muscles were starting to quiver from the exhaustion. "Please John."

Ah, there it was, the way he said his name, that's what John needed. He quickly removed his hand, resulting in a small whimper from Sherlock, slicked it with his tongue and then gripped Sherlock once more. He was running his fist in a slow steady motion, pumping Sherlock gently. John's mouth began to water as he listened to Sherlock's erratic moaning.

John removed his hand once more and place both hands on Sherlock's hips, digging his fingers into the tender skin. In a swift movement he pulled Sherlock flush against him and then rolled them both over so that John was now on top of Sherlock.

John wiggled down between Sherlocks knees, spreading them slightly, and brought his mouth to Sherlock's stomach. He ran his nose down into Sherlocks pubic hair, and nuzzled along his cock. He pulled back slightly and gave a small lick to the tip, looking up at Sherlock's face as he did so. Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut, his chest was rising and falling sharply, and his fingers were digging into one of the cushions they were settled on.

When John pushed the entire length of Sherlock's cock into his mouth all at once, Sherlock called out something incoherent that sounded something like John's name. John began to bob his head at a medium pace. He sucked hard on each upstroke, and eased his way down. Sherlock was trying to keep still underneath John, but he kept trying to push farther into John's mouth.

The erotic sounds of ragged breath and the slick of skin on skin were the only sounds as John continued to suck and bob. He could feel Sherlock beginning to shake, all the muscles in his body winding tight.

"Jo..John." Sherlock was trying to reach for John's body. He wanted to give John a taste of what he was experiencing.

John didn't remove his mouth, he simply peered up at Sherlock and when he saw his outstretched hand, he slid close enough for Sherlock to hitch down John's pants.

Following John's example, Sherlock slicked his hand on his tongue and reached out to grab John's stiff cock. The grip was awkward, but it would do. Sherlock began pumping John in sync with John's own movements.

John's eyes fluttered shut and he began to moan into the stimulation. His moans vibrated against Sherlock's cock in his mouth, which made Sherlock shiver violently.

"God...John...I'm...John...Joooohn." The last word came out more in a moan than an actual word. But John understood the meaning. He pushed Sherlock as far into his mouth as he could manage as Sherlock came hard into his mouth. The warm fluid filling his mouth, the tight frantic tugging on his cock, and Sherlock's voice calling his name as he came all combined to send John over the edge himself.

John shuddered and shuddered with wave after wave of aftershock, before finally slumping forward and pressing his face into Sherlock's chest. Both of them were slick with sweat and exhausted.

Sherlock gently snaked his clean hand around John's shoulders and placed a soft kiss on the crown of his head.

* * *

><p>They washed up and cleaned up the leftovers before deciding that an early bedtime was fitting for tonight.<p>

"Would you like to sleep out here on the cushions?" Sherlock asked as he began blowing out the candles one by one. Both men were still naked, and John couldn't help but smile and Sherlock's firm arse as he moved from one candle to the next.

"Sure, I'll just grab a couple blankets." John came back with the blankets, and they both positioned themselves easily on the cushions under the blankets, not bothering to put on pajamas.

They lay facing each other in the dark, John, every now and then, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's face. They didn't feel the need to talk, so they just laid there, listening to each other's breath and the thunderstorm outside.

Eventually Sherlock engulfed John in a cuddle, and they both fell into a deep and relaxing sleep.


	13. Chocolate Biscuits

John awoke to pale morning light and a strong cramp in his lower back. He shifted his weight slightly, remembering that he had slept on a heap of pillows last night. Not being able to find a comfortable position on his right side, he rolled over onto his left. His eyes fluttered open and he let out a large yawn. He was greeted with the sight of Sherlock sitting cross-legged and naked a few feet from him, with John's laptop opened on his lap.

"G'morning," John mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Sherlock grumbled in response, not looking up from the computer screen.

John stretched and sat up, "What time is it?" He was wondering if he would have time to take a shower before leaving for work.

"10:34." Sherlock still didn't look up from the screen.

"What?" John shot up and began frantically searching for his mobile. "I'm already an hour and a half late. I have to go now. Have you seen my phone?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow as he peered at John's naked and frantic form. "Relax John. I've called the surgery. You have the day off."

John shut his eyes tightly, not daring to imagine what Sherlock might have said to his office manager, Sarah.

"I told them you were much to tired to perform at optimal levels. I explained the role of sleep in thought processes, and how any impairments might lead to false diagnoses, or misses of actual diagnoses. I also explained that you were physically ailed by sore muscles, which would make you irritable, not exactly the attitude one wants in a physician." Sherlock's expression was bored, as if this was the most normal conversation he'd ever had.

_Well that's not too bad_, John thought. He remained quiet for a moment, not wanting but needing to inquire further. "Is that all?" He finally asked, biting his lip waiting for the answer.

"Shannon asked why you were so exhausted and ailed with sore muscles." _Oh god_, John thought. "I explained that a combination of sexual activity and sleeping in a rather uncomfortable and unsupportive position, was the culprit for both conditions. She seemed satisfied with my reasoning."

Not knowing what else to say, John finally settled on "Her name is Sarah."

"Is that important?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes at the question. He found his pants that had been tossed aside last night and pulled them on, before making his way to the kitchen. "Cuppa?" He shouted back at the detective.

"Yes." John waited a moment, but right as he was about to give up hope and roll his eyes once again, Sherlock followed with, "Thank you."

John boiled the water and got the tea out. He arranged two mugs. He opened the fridge, and immediately was irritated. Reentering the living room he rounded on Sherlock. "You said you would pick up the milk yesterday. You know I drink milk in my tea."

This got Sherlock's attention. He furrowed his brows, trying to remember when he'd agreed to pick up milk. _Oh yes, John asked me to pick up milk when he told me he was on his was home_. Sherlock was slightly frustrated with himself, but decided to play it off. He had more interesting things to be annoyed at. "Right. Sorry John, in my haste to prepare the flat last night, I completely forgot to pick up more. Although, I don't know why you're still surprised at this occurrence, it is quite common."

John fixed Sherlock with a glare before returning to the kitchen, all the while shaking his head.

John returned to find Sherlock sitting in his arm chair, he had pulled on a pair of pajama pants, with his fingers steepled under his chin. John set the single mug on the floor beside Sherlock's chair, since the coffee table had not been moved back yet. "Here's your tea. I'm going to go pick up some milk. Want anything?" John was smiling, he had to admit that Sherlock had been right, he really shouldn't expect Sherlock to ever remember the milk.

"Biscuits." Sherlock mumbled, staring forward, his eyes glazed, almost unblinking.

John got dressed and pulled on his coat to leave. As his hand rested on the door knob, Sherlock's trance was broken. The lanky man jumped up and practically sprang across the room to John.

Sherlock looked down at John, placed his hand against John's cheek, stroking with his thumb, and then leaned down to press their lips together.

The kiss was short and sweet, and it was even more special because it was the last thing John had expected. But just as quickly as it had happened, it was over. Sherlock was back in his arm chair, resuming his earlier pose. The last thing he said to John before the doctor left the flat was, "Chocolate ones."

Of course John knew Sherlock wanted the chocolate biscuits.

* * *

><p>John returned to the flat to find Sherlock texting frantically. "Everything okay?" he asked from the kitchen, as he set the groceries down.<p>

"Yes, Mycroft simply won't take no for an answer."

"Ah, so I see it runs in the family." John sneered as his unpacked the chocolate biscuits.

"Funny John."

"What are you saying no to anyway?"

Sherlock meandered into the kitchen and opened the new box of biscuits, casually popping one in his mouth. "A case," he said with his mouth full, little chocolate crumbs falling out as he spoke.

"Why don't you want the case?" John put the milk in the fridge and began to turn out the pockets of his coat.

"Dull." Sherlock said through another mouthful of biscuit. "What's wrong John?" John had begun patting each of his pockets, delving his hand into each one, and looking increasingly more worried. He turned around and around, looking all about where he had just been. "John?"

"Sorry, I think I might have left my wallet down at the shop. Damnit. I've got to go back down there. You can tell me about Mycroft when I get back yeah? It will only take a few minutes."

John, once more, rushed out of the flat leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock walked to the window to gaze down at John's hurried form heading back to the shop. He watched until John's form disappeared from sight. He turned around, intending to go back to his armchair, but instead his was thrown forward by a powerful explosion that shook the whole flat, and sent shards of broken glass from the windows, clattering around him on the floor. Sherlock's mind went blank.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_

_**This marks the beginning of our entrance into canon events. That means spoilers. This fic will include spoilers for at least series 1 and 2, also possibly 3. Please keep in mind that this is not supposed to be following canon to a T, meaning some events are changed, shortened, lengthened, or all together skipped. **_

_**Thanks agin to all the wonderful people who have favorited or followed this story, and a special thanks to the 4 people who have left me reviews, I appreciate it immensely. And as always, thanks for reading. **_


	14. I'd Be Lost Without my Blogger

John made it to the shop and was having a row with the cashier behind the counter. The cashier had to be only 16 years old and looked to either be drunk or stoned.

"Listen pal, I can't just give you some blokes wallet. Sorry."

"You're not listening to me, it's my wallet. I was in here not 20 minutes ago, I must have left it." John had been having this round-about conversation for about 10 minutes now, and he was getting extremely frustrated.

"You got any way to prove it's yours mister?" The clerk was lazily chewing a piece of gum while leaning forward against the counter. Definitely stoned, John thought as he caught a whiff of the unmistakable smell of weed.

"I told you, open it up and look at the ID, it's got my picture on it, that proves it's mine." John was trying very hard not to shout at the drugged youngster, but his patience was wearing frightfully thin.

"I can't just go round opening people's wallets can I?" The boy said, reminding John of when Sherlock used his "obvious" tone. "That's an invasion of privacy. I could go to jail for that."

"Oh for the love of..." John's voice faltered. A TV was on behind the boy at the counter, and the banner "Breaking News" was flashing across the bottom of the screen. A newscaster was explaining the situation, but John couldn't hear since the cashier had the volume muted. All John knew was that he had caught a glimpse of Baker Street.

"You okay mister?" The cashier asked when he noticed John had stopped talking. Realizing his line of sight, the cashier turned and gazed behind him in the direction of the telly.

"Can you turn that up please?" John asked softly, hoping that he had been wrong. The cashier obliged and turned the volume up. The last words John caught from the newscaster were "explosion in a civilian street. Derick Rodham is on scene, over to you Derick." John held his breath as the scene changed. His eyes widened when he saw, who he assumed was, Derick standing in front of Speedy's cafe on Baker Street.

John's ears began to ring and he only heard bits and pieces of what was being said. The cashier asking again, "You alright mate?" was what shook John.

"That's my flat," John practically whispered, still rooted to the spot from shock. Then it dawned on him. "Sherlock," he muttered and turned to leave.

"Oi, mate. What about your wallet?" The cashier yelled at John, but John ignored him and ran out the door and onto the street.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up lying on his back. He blinked rapidly, taking in his surroundings, and deduced that he was on a stretcher in an ambulance. He tried to sit up, but was being restrained by a thick collar around his neck. He found the movement in his arms, hands, and fingers, and reached up to unbuckle his restraint.<p>

As he was sitting up, a woman in uniform stepped in. She put her hand to his chest, and gently tried to force him back down. "Hey, take it easy," She said. Her voice was soft and concerned. She wore her long brown hair tied back in a neat bun, she was taller than most women, and she was thin, but Sherlock had the impression that her muscles were well toned underneath her uniform.

"I'm fine," Sherlock responded, as he again began to sit up. She was looking at him with an expression of concern.

"At least let me examine you now that you're awake."

Sherlock groaned, but allowed her the examination anyway. She shined a flashlight in his eyes and asked him silly questions like "how many fingers am I holding up?" Finally she gave him the clear to stand up, handing him a blanket as she did so.

"What is with you people and blankets?" Sherlock muttered, setting the blanket on the stretcher and stepping out of the ambulance.

His eyes darted around the street. He noted several news vans, a couple of fire trucks, and a second ambulance, though he didn't see anyone in it. He spotted a sleek, black car pulling up to a curb. _Mycroft_. He made his way towards the car, effectively ruining 2 separate cameramen's shots.

The door to the sedan opened and Mycroft stepped out. He wore a sleet grey suit with a red tie, as always his umbrella was in hand. "Hello brother," he said as Sherlock was striding the last few feet to stand before him. "I see you are alright after all."

"Fine. Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft kept tabs on their flat, so he would know more information than anyone else.

"She's visiting her friend in Sussex."

"Can I borrow your mobile? I need to call John."

"No need," Mycroft responded as another black car was pulling up behind the one Mycroft had been in. "Here he is now."

John practically jumped out of the car, rushed over to Sherlock and threw his arms around the tall man. He was breathing hard, and he had been so worried that he didn't care who would see this public display. _Let them talk_.

Sherlock was surprised at first, but then leaned into the hug, wrapping his own arms around John in return.

"God Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked into Sherlock's bare chest.

"I'm fine John." John pulled back and looked Sherlock over, easily making the transition from concerned flat mate to doctor. "Really, I'm fine," Sherlock repeated as John scrutinized him.

"You must be freezing. Here." John took off his jacket and handed it to Sherlock. It wasn't until this moment that Sherlock realized he was bare chested, not having a chance to put on a shirt, and that he was in fact cold. He pulled on the coat, which was very snug, but he was grateful for the warmth it gave him.

"Thank you John. So Mycroft, what happened?"

* * *

><p>They were allowed to return up to the flat, which only minor damage of lost windows. Mycroft sat in John's armchair, and Sherlock sat across from him in his own chair. John was pacing back and forth, watching the men's silent conversation.<p>

"Gas leak?" John finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Apparently." Mycroft responded, glancing over at John. Then he looked back at his little brother, who had pulled out his violin and was plucking at the strings. "Sherlock, we need you on this case."

"Sorry brother, I'm far to busy at the moment. I'm sure you can figure it out." Sherlock gave Mycroft a smug look, and plucked a particularly high note on the fine instrument in his lap.

"No no, I can't possibly be away from the office. Not even for a moment. Especially not with the Korean elections so..." John's eyes widened and Mycroft trailed off mid-sentence. "Well you don't need to know about that." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John continued to look dumbstruck. "Besides, something like this requires...legwork."

"What's the matter Mycroft? Afraid of a little excercise? Which reminds me, how is the diet going?" Sherlock's eyes glittered at the frustrated glare Mycroft settled on him.

"Fine. This is a matter of national importance Sherlock." Mycroft held out a folder in Sherlock's general direction, but Sherlock pretended he simply didn't notice, and went right on twerking the strings of his violin.

"Perhaps you can convince him John." Mycroft crossed the room to John, and held the folder Sherlock had declined out to John. John hesitated, but took the case file anyway.

"Civil servant, known as Westy has been found dead on train rails with his head smashed in."

"Bloke jumped in front of the train?" John asked as he leafed through the papers Mycroft had given him.

"It would appear so."

"But?" John glanced up.

"But?" Mycroft repeated.

"That can't be all, I mean if it was that simple you wouldn't be asking for Sherlock's help."

"Government defense plans. A new defense project's plans were stored on a memory stick."

"Well that's not very clever," John quipped. Sherlock beamed at John from behind Mycroft, and John had to fight the urge to beam right back.

"It's not the only copy. We believe West stole the memory stick. Now it is gone. Those plans are secret, and should they fall into the wrong hands..." John couldn't help but thinking how dramatic Mycroft always enjoyed being. "We need to recover those plans." Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, "Think it over."

Sherlock picked up his bow and began to scrape it along the violin's strings, sending a proper rachet through the whole flat. Mycroft fixed his little brother with one last glare before turning to leave.

When Mycroft was safely out of the flat, Sherlock ended his frantic scraping and set his violin back down into his lap. John moved and sat down in his own armchair, looking Sherlock up and down. Sherlock had put on clean clothes, and he looked marvelous. John decided that Sherlock's dark purple shirt was his favorite, and that's what Sherlock wore now.

"So why did you lie?" John asked after a moment's silence. Sherlock didn't answer the question, he simply looked curiously at John. "You told your brother you had a case. You don't have a case. You finished the only one you had yesterday."

"It's not worth my time," Sherlock answered with one brow raised ever so slightly.

"Oh I see," John was smiling. He thought this must be what it feels like to be Sherlock all the time, deducing everyone's emotions and intentions. "Sibling rivalry? Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock squinted at John, but didn't have time to respond because his phone began to ring in his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes," was Sherlock's version of a "hello." John strained forward, trying to hear the caller and what the conversation was about. "Of course, I'll be right there." Sherlock hung up, carefully placed his violin back in its case and then made for his coat. "I've been called on," he explained to John. "You coming?"

"If you want me to," John responded, hoping to hear a yes.

"Of course," Sherlock replied as he pulled his long coat around him. He turned to look back at John when he reached the top stair, "I'd be lost without my blogger." Sherlock leaned down and placed a small kiss on John's cheek, before bounding down the stairs.

John smiled and put his hand to where the lips had made contact with his face. He gave his heart a moment to slow down before following Sherlock out onto the street.


	15. Hello Sexy

John followed on Sherlock's heels as they strode through New Scotland Yard following Lestrade to his office. Lestrade had informed Sherlock that there had been another explosion similar to the one on Baker Street and that a strong-box had survived the impact. Inside the strong-box they had found a single envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

In Lestrade's office, Sherlock was examining the envelope. John watched intently as the detective's eyes flitted from one part of the package to another so rapidly John had a hard time believing Sherlock could see anything at all. But of course, not only could Sherlock see, but he could observe everything about the envelope. John was hardly listening, but he did catch Sherlock describing the pen used.

"Her?" John asked, pulled from his daze, when he heard Sherlock mention the writer of his name was a female.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded without looking up at John. Really, John should be offended when Sherlock says this, but he simply can't be mad at the implication against his intelligence when it's muttered by such a beautiful voice. Sometimes John thought about asking ridiculous questions on purpose, just to get Sherlock to say that oh-so-sexy word.

Sherlock had produced a pen knife from his pocket and he gently eased it into the envelope, dragging it along the top, effectively opening the parcel. Inside was a mobile phone.

"Hold on...Is that?" John started to ask when he recognized the phone.

"No, but it was made to look like that phone." Sherlock was turning the phone over and over in his hands, examining the pink case with great care.

"You mean the phone from A Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

"Ye...A Study in Pink? You read his blog?" Sherlock dragged his eyes away from the phone to look back and forth between John and Lestrade. Sherlock had made it quite clear to John what he had thought of the blog during one of his boredom-induced tantrums last week. He had been especially angry at John for pointing out the holes in his knowlege base.

"Of course," Lestrade answered. Donovan had entered the office when Sherlock had asked his question and she was smirking in the direction of the detective. "We all do." Lestrade indicated Donovan and made a general wave in the direction of outside his office. Sherlock could only assume that he had meant that everyone in the entirety of NSY was reading about his cases on the "Personal Blog of Doctor John Watson."

"Do you really not know that we go round the sun?" Donovan asked, not able to bite back all her laughter. Lestrade chuckled to, and Sherlock fixed them both with a death-glare, but then he directed his gaze in John's direction.

John looked down sheepishly, he hadn't meant for his writing to give more ammunition to people like Donovan who made fun of Sherlock at any given opportunity. He had just been trying to shed some light on how Sherlock thinks. _But it's the solar system_, John had said when Sherlock had told him, and he had been so shocked that he couldn't help but write it down in his blog. Now he was regretting that decision thoroughly.

Upon seeing John's downcast eyes, and look of possible..._guilt_, Sherlock turned his attention back to the mobile in his hand. He discovered a voicemail. He played the message on speaker so that the others could hear as well. Beep... Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep... And that was the end of the message.

John, Lestrade, and Donovan were all looking rather confused.

"Is that it?" Lestrade asked, breaking the silence.

"No," Sherlock said as he opened up the photos app. He looked over the only photo in the library. Realization dawned on him. He held the phone at arms length to show the Inspector and John what he had discovered.

"What's that's supposed to mean?" Lestrade asked. But Sherlock was headed for the door of Lestrade's office.

"I've seen this place before." Sherlock said, mostly to himself, as he opened the office door.

"So what's the message?" Lestrade asked, trying to keep up as Sherlock walked quickly out of the office.

"It's not a message, it's a warning."

"A warning?" John voiced the question this time.

"Yes a warning. It's going to happen again."

"What's going to happen?" John was shaking his head slightly, trying to clear the confusion.

"Boom!" Sherlock responded and then turned his back on the others and headed towards the exit.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was driving the 3 of them back to Baker Street. John and Sherlock sat in silence in the back seat, leaving Lestrade to his own thoughts. He glanced at the men in his car via the rear-view mirror, and noted their increased physical proximity. Sherlock had kept John close ever since they met, but never this close.<p>

Lestrade watched them when he pulled up to a stop light. Sherlock was still gently examining the phone, and John seemed to be watching every movement intently. Sherlock's eyes would now and again dart to John's face, but John didn't notice. Lestrade was trying to read the expression on Sherlock's face, perhaps..._concern_?

When Sherlock's eyes glanced up and met Lestrade's pale blue eyes in the mirror, Lestrade attempted to play it off, by checking his side mirrors, and muttering something under his breath about traffic.

Of course Sherlock could see through his act. He wondered what the Inspector had been thinking while looking over Sherlock and John. _Lestrade is not clever enough to piece together John and I's relationship...And even if he was, why does it matter? John's not ashamed of us...and neither am I._

In a rather bold move, Sherlock moved his free hand to John's knee. John was pulled out of the trance induced by studying the beautifully-long fingers clutching the mobile. He tilted his head slightly, but then decided better than to question it. He placed his hand on top of Sherlock's. Their hands sat still like this for a few moments, but soon John felt Sherlock turn his hand over so that their palms would touch and their fingers intertwined. John's heart raced, and so did Sherlock's.

Lestrade risked another quick glance at the boys in the backseat, and he saw them practically beaming at each other, leaned in closer to each other than they had been before. Lestrade nearly slammed on his breaks when he saw Sherlock raise John's hand in his to his mouth and place a small kiss on the top of John's hand.

Lestrade stopped glancing at them after that. He simply smiled to himself and thought about how good John had proven to be for the ex-drug addict. He was so glad that they had found each other.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson was back at the flat when John, Lestrade, and Sherlock arrived. Sherlock walked into her door without so much as a hello and started asking her about the unrented flat below John and Sherlock's?<p>

"The person that you recently showed the empty flat to, Mrs Hudson, what did they look like?" Sherlock was rummaging around in one of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen drawers.

She came up next to Sherlock and swatted his hands away. "If you'd listen to me, I haven't shown anyone that flat in the past 6 months. I've all but given up on trying to rent it out. That's the trouble with basements..."

Sherlock was making for another drawer with the intention of assaulting this one as well. "Where's the key Mrs. Hudson?" He asked, wondering if it would be faster to find it himself.

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson knew exactly where the key was and retrieved it. She lead the boys to the empty flat and unlocked the door.

"Someone's been in here recently," Sherlock mumbled to himself.

"But that's impossible, I've got the only key," Mrs Hudson responded, but no one was listening. The 3 men were making their way into the dusty living-space. Mrs. Hudson was left alone in the corridor.

John was stunned to think that his and Sherlock's flat was just as big as this one. He'd always thought of their flat as rather cramped and small, but now he was realizing that was just a symptom of the mass amounts of things Sherlock packed into their space. This flat was barren, save for a few dust-covered boxes, and one recent addition. A single pair of sneakers sat in the middle of the floor.

Sherlock began forward, but then hesitated a moment. He had thought back to the favor John had asked him on their first day spent lying in each other's arms. _Please, in the future, show some concern for your life and limb. It would save me a lot of anxiety and possibly heartache. _Sherlock would normally have just bounded up to the sneakers and started examining them without a care in the world, but he had remembered this request from John and the fact that they were currently dealing with a bomber so he decided on a more careful approach.

Sherlock eased forward step by step, trying not to disturb anything in the room. When he was a few feet from the shoes he leaned down and stretched himself out on his stomach. Easing himself forward a few more feet, his face was now level with and only a few inches from the mysterious shoes.

The tension in the room was almost tangible. John was watching Sherlock while trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. Lestrade stood close to John, his eyes darting back and forth between the doctor and the detective. He couldn't fail to notice Sherlock's new found caution, and he was attributing that to John. If he wouldn't have been so concerned about the situation at hand, he probably would have smiled at the thought that John was keeping Sherlock out of trouble.

Sherlock held his breath as he began reaching one hand towards the shoes. All three of them jumped when Sherlock quickly pulled his hand back and a ringing filled the flat.

John closed his eyes and let out the breath he'd been holding as Sherlock stood up and pulled the pink mobile from his coat pocket. He answered the call and put it on speaker. "Hello?" he said, almost a whisper.

"He...Hello...Sexy..." _Woman's voice. Breaking speech, afraid and crying. Unrecognized voice, stranger._ Sherlock's mind was racing as he listened to these first few words.

"Who is this? Why are you crying?" Sherlock glanced over at John and Lestrade who were listening intently.

"I'm...not...crying... I'm typing...and this...stupid...bitch is reading it." A small sob broke in the woman's shaking voice before she said the word bitch. _Reading a message. Crying. Being used. Life threatened. In danger_.

John let out a huff, and Lestrade had begun pacing back and forth.

"12 hours...to solve my puzzle...Sherlock," The woman on the phone stated. "Or...I'm going to be...so naughty..." The woman let out a final sob and then the line went dead.

John stepped towards Sherlock, who was staring at the silent phone in his hand. John started to reach his hand out to place it on Sherlock's shoulder, but before he made contact, Sherlock spun around. "We need to get to Saint Barts. Lestrade I'll be taking these," Sherlock indicated the shoes. "This is not the bomb...The woman is."

"Oh god... Let's get on it, I'll give you two a lift over there," Lestrade offered as Sherlock picked up the pair of sneakers. Together, the three of them returned to the police car and drove off to the hospital.


	16. Office Romance

Molly Hooper let Sherlock, John, and Lestrade into her lab. Sherlock didn't even bother to give her a hello, just bustled past her to view what equipment she wasn't currently using. She gazed after Sherlock for a moment, before turning back to the other two men, blushing slightly. "Come on in," she said.

John gave her an apology smile, and walked in past her. Lestrade stayed in the doorway for a moment, before saying, "I'm guessing this is going to take awhile. I better be getting back to the Yard. Call me if anything comes up?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, John rolled his eyes and agreed the he would call if anything changed. Lestrade bid them farewell, turned on his heel and left. Sherlock said nothing as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began his examination.

* * *

><p>"So who do you suppose it was?" John asked Sherlock, who had his eyes pressed against a microscope.<p>

Sherlock blinked and responded with a "hmmm?"

"The woman on the phone...The crying woman?" John was pacing back and forth, running through every scenario of who it might possibly have been on the other end of the phone conversation.

"Oh, she doesn't matter, she's just a hostage. No lead there." Sherlock's tone was flat and bored. Sherlock didn't want to extrapolate on anything yet, most certainly not the most trivial point of the whole situation.

"Oh for God's sake...I wasn't thinking about leads." John screwed his eyes shut, trying not to get angry with Sherlock's apparent lack of concern for the life of another human being.

"That won't be of much use to her..." The computer next to Sherlock was running a program, trying to analyze the compound he'd found on the soles of the sneakers.

"Are they trying to trace the call?" John's voice quivered a bit at Sherlock's lack of emotional involvement. _How can he not care that this woman's life is on the line? Someone called him out by name...This is for him...She might die for him..._ He banished that last train of thought because it made him sick to his stomach. He shook his head._ I know Sherlock, he'll solve this...He'll save her. _

"He's too smart for that," Sherlock answered John's question after a brief pause. He was slightly irritated with John's excessive questions. He was trying to focus on the object under the microscope. Not to mention his phone was buzzing with texts. "Pass me my phone," he said, a demand rather than a question.

John let out a huff. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

John glanced around the room quickly. He pressing his eyes closed again and counting under his breath to ten when he realized Sherlock was wearing the jacket. Sometimes he just wanted to punch Sherlock in his smug face. _Lazy bugger can't even be bothered to reach into his own pocket?_ But nevertheless, John crossed the room and fished in Sherlock's pocket for the mobile.

"Careful!" Sherlock bemoaned when John's hand scraped down the inner lining of the jacket, finding it's way into the pocket there.

John let out another sigh and moved his had slower. He hadn't realized that what made Sherlock jump was John's hand sliding down over his nipple. Even through the fabric of his dress shirt, he had felt the sensation. He knew he couldn't let his mind wander, he had a limited amount of time to sole this...puzzle. _But god did John's hands feel good_.

Glancing at the phone, John quickly read the notification on the screen. "It's a text. From your brother."

"Delete it."

"Delete it?"

"The plans are out of the country by now. There's nothing we can do about it."

"Obviously your brother thinks there is. He's texted you...8 times. Must be important..." John was reading through the messages from the elder Holmes.

Sherlock leaned his head back, one eyebrow raised, feeling a huge annoyance from John's very presence at the moment. "Then why," he began, "didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

John looked confused, and Sherlock began to explain that Mycroft rarely text if he could talk. But he stopped mid explanation. Shaking his head and making a comment about his brother being dull and about someone else being "delightfully interesting."

John's anger bubbled up and he couldn't refrain from telling Sherlock, "Try to remember there is a dying woman at stake here."

"Why?" Sherlock shot back. He glared at John. "We're in a hospital full of dying people Doctor," he practically spat the last word from his mouth. "Why don't you go cry at their bedsides for all the good it will do them?"

John balled his hands into fists, thinking he really might punch Sherlock for this one. But before he had a chance, the computer dinged. The search was complete.

* * *

><p>Molly returned as Sherlock was pouring over the search results. "Any luck?" She asked.<p>

"Oh yes." Sherlock said with audible relief. _Perhaps he was worried about the woman after all_, thought John.

As Molly made it to Sherlock's side, the lab door opened and a skinny, short man in a tight grey shirt stepped in.

"Jim!" Molly exclaimed. He made to apologize for interrupting, but she waved it away. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She waved her hand in the general direction of Sherlock, who only glanced up briefly at the man named Jim. But in those few seconds, Sherlock made at least 7 deductions about Jim. He glanced back down into the microscope. "And this is Doctor John Watson." Molly smiled at John and then back at Jim.

John looked Jim over, trying to use everything he'd learned from Sherlock to figure out who the man was in front of him. Jim was a very slim man, he wore a tight, v-necked, grey t-shirt and cargo pants, which hung low on his hips, John could see the hint of bright green boxers clinging to the tanned skin of his waist line. He noticed the long chain he wore round his neck that disappeared into his shirt, the outline of which could be seen on his mid-chest. He black hair was short cropped, and styled, and his eyebrows were impeccably tweezed. John also noticed the way Jim kept glancing at Sherlock and biting on his lower lip.

John bristled with jealousy. Jim didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to John, but rather began walking eagerly to where Sherlock was sitting. "Hello," Jim said, almost a little shy. "Wow, Molly's told me all about you. Working on one of your cases?"

"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly explained. "That's how we met. Office romance." She let out a nervous little giggle, and kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock, waiting for a reaction. John and Jim both joined in her laughter, and it John's intention at least to lighten the tension.

John was suddenly aware that everyone in the room was looking at Sherlock, who was paying none of them any attention. John almost burst into laughter at the thought that every one in the room was hugely affected by how gorgeous Sherlock is. He'd seen Molly's crush on Sherlock of course, but he felt almost sorry for her as he watched her boyfriend checking-out the detective. John couldn't help but let a smug grin settle on his face at the thought that Sherlock was his.

"Gay." Sherlock muttered. He couldn't help himself. Everyone in the room had heard it, but when Molly asked what he'd said anyway, he tried to play it off and said, "Nothing, umm hey."

A loud clatter made all of them jump. Jim had knocked a metal tray off the table Sherlock was sitting at. He hastily tried to pick it up. He replaced the tray and with an embarrassed expression said, "well I better be off." She walked over and put his hand on Molly's back. I'll see you tonight around 6ish?" Molly nodded and smiled up at him. "Bye," Jim said with a final longing look at Sherlock. "It was nice to meet you." Jim stood there for a moment waiting for Sherlock to respond.

When the silence got uncomfortable, John decided to free them all from the situation. "You too." Jim nodded at John and then left the lab.

When Jim was out of the room Molly asked Sherlock, "What did you mean gay? We're...we're together." Her voice shook, and her eyes widened when Sherlock sucked in a large breath. John knew where this was going, Sherlock always needed a lot of oxygen before going through a string of deductions.

"Domestic bliss must suit you Molly. You've put on 3 pounds since last I saw you."

"2 and a half." John saw Molly's eyes begin to glaze with a thick set of tears. She was fighting to hold them in.

"Well...3."

"Sherlock," John tried to stop Sherlock. He didn't like where this was going. Sure, even John had been able to pick up that Jim was gay, but did Sherlock have to be so harsh in telling Molly. _And to point out weight gain, that's just rude_.

"He's not gay!" Molly shouted. "Why do you have to spoil...He's not...He's not." Molly was trying hard to ignore what she'd observed herself. _We're together, he can't be gay_, she kept thinking over and over.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't facing John, but John felt he could hear the roll of Sherlock's eyes.

"Because he puts a little product in his hair? I put a little product in my hair." John was interjecting, trying to save Molly anymore embarrassment on Sherlock's behalf.

"My point," Sherlock mumbled, and John fixed him with a glare. Sherlock couldn't hold back his train of observations. But it was the last example he gave that really hit Molly like a ton of bricks. She could have denied everything else Sherlock had said, but when he told her, "He left me his number under this dish here," she pursed her lips. "I suggest you break it off now. Save yourself the pain."

Molly blinked rapidly trying, but failing to hide her tears. She turned sharply, her lab coat flapping behind her as she exited the lab, leaving John and Sherlock alone once again.

Sherlock watched after Molly, genuinely confused. _What did I say?_ He had honestly been trying to be helpful. _Wouldn't she rather know now that he's using her?_ He could hear John sigh behind him, and so knew a lecture was coming.

"Charming...Well done," John said, folding his arms across his chest.

"I was just trying to save her time." Sherlock was trying to keep his composure, but he was unsure of himself, he didn't like being unsure of himself. "Isn't that kinder?" The question didn't effectively mask his uncertainty, and John saw through Sherlock's attempts to fool him.

"No...no Sherlock. That wasn't kind." John had softened his voice, attempting to show Sherlock that he wasn't angry and that he was glad that Sherlock's intentions had been good.

Sherlock attempted to change the subject, nudging one of the shoes towards John, "Go on then."

John tried to deny the invitation, but Sherlock pressed him. He even went so far as to say that a second opinion was important to him. John had shaken his head at that, almost laughing out loud. "Really," Sherlock had said in response to John's disbelief.

John's heart skipped a beat when he looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw, what he believed was affection, looking back at him. He allowed himself to smile at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow suggestively in return.

John did his best at imitating Sherlock's deduction strategies. In the end, Sherlock applauded him for his attempt, but pointed out everything that John had missed (which apparently had been everything that was important).

In the midst of explaining everything he had discovered about the shoes to John, Sherlock stopped mid word. Realization etched his face. "Oh," he said softly.

John couldn't help but look at him, confused once again. He waited for a moment, wondering if Sherlock was going to explain what was going on. Finally, John decided that the chance of Sherlock divulging his thoughts without being pressed was extremely low. "What?"

"Carl Powers." Sherlock's voice was still low, as if he was conveying a secret.

"Sorry?" John stepped closer to Sherlock in an attempt to hear him better.

"Carl Powers."

In the cab ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock explained to John the Carl Powers drowning. He had always believed that it hadn't been the "tragic accident" the newspapers had called it. John listened intently, but didn't ask any further questions, and when Sherlock fell silent, he left him to his own thoughts. He looked down at his phone and noted that they had just passed the 6 hour mark, 6 hours to go.


	17. This Isn't Just a Fling

John was sitting in the Mycroft's extravagant office. Sherlock had been ignoring Mycroft's texts for all day. John had to admit that with a woman strapped with explosives seemed more immediate than Mycroft's missing defense plans. But when Mycroft began texting John, John had attempted to reason with Sherlock, give it at least some consideration. Sherlock had been sitting at their kitchen table when John reminded him the Mycroft had said it was a matter of "national security." John was worried that Sherlock would ignore this case completely just to spite his big brother.

But Sherlock had responded by telling John that he wasn't ignoring Mycroft. He was, in fact, putting his "best man" on the case. John had nodded and smiled at that, glad that he had possibly gotten through to the impossible detective. But then his brows had furrowed and he regretted having to ask who Sherlock's best man was.

That's how John ended up in Mycroft's extravagant office. John had decided to go into meet the elder Holmes in his best tan suit jacket and trousers and a white button-down. He'd even completed the look with a red tie that he'd knicked from Sherlock's closet. He wanted to look his most professional, and he was trying very hard not to feel incredibly small in the huge room.

Mycroft entered the office with a sense of annoyance, but greeted John warmly nevertheless. John had stood up to shake his hand, and after the brief shake, Mycroft motioned for him to sit back down. Pleasantries were all but skipped after that. "I was hoping to see my brother, what is he up to?" Mycroft's voice was always soft and subdued, it had an immediate effect of intimidating most people. John however wasn't one of those people.

"He's busy. Investigating away. Just sent me to collect more information." _Not a complete lie._

"How is he?" Mycroft always pushed this subject, but John never really understood why, after all the man made use of every single security camera in London to watch over Sherlock.

"He's uh...He's fine." John wanted to change the subject, he never knew just what he should say to Mycroft that wouldn't upset Sherlock. "Anything else you can tell me about the missing plans?"

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Like Sherlock, he was rarely seen out of a suit and today was no exception. It was one of his blue-grey suits, with a pale blue button-down underneath. He wore black shoes, that had been shined to the point that one could see their own reflection in them, and a navy blue tie. He was scanning John's features as he leaned back, and John was aware of the trademark feeling of being dissected that one can only receive from a Holmes.

Mycroft gave John some more information about the case, and John scratched all of it down furiously into a pocket notebook. When Mycroft fell silent, John looked up. "Is that all?" he asked.

"I was hoping Sherlock could give us more information." Mycroft fixed John with an expression of boredom. _Runs in the family._

"Right. Okay, thanks." John stood up, feeling a stress-induced pang in his shoulder.

"Really John," Mycroft said, making John turn back to face him again. "How is he? I do worry about him so."

John gave a slight smile, thinking about how much the two pretended to despise each other, yet they were both brothers and they both cared about each other. "Really Mycroft, he's fine. Just working on investigating. You know how he gets when he's got a case."

"Ah yes, working a case always puts him a bit on edge. He should be focusing on this case however." Of course Mycroft had known that Sherlock wasn't even trying to work on the case of the missing defense plans.

John looked down sheepishly at his shoes. He didn't want to receive a scolding for lying to Mycroft, even though John stood behind his thoughts that he hadn't really lied, he'd only said that Sherlock was investigating and that was true.

"I'm know you didn't deceive me, but I also know you didn't tell me the whole truth. Believe it or not however, this is not my main concern. Truth be told, I am somewhat pleased that you've come here alone." John looked up at Mycroft, confusion all over his features. "How are things going in your...relationship?" Mycroft said the last word slowly, almost as if it was sharp on his tongue.

_Of course the bloody bastard knows_, John thought. He rolled his eyes thinking of how prying both brother's could be. But then some of the color drained from his face as he started to wonder just how many cameras Mycroft had at his disposal, and where they were located. _Sherlock wouldn't stand for having any cameras in the flat...would he._

"No John, I do not have any secret cameras hidden inside your flat. I'm not that keen to find out what Sherlock does in the privacy of his own home. Especially not with you there." Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, but decided it best just to push on. "Sherlock did ask for the service of one of my vehicles if you recall. It wasn't difficult to extrapolate that you two were on a...romantic outing from the locations he gave the driver."

"Well um..yeah we have gone out...a few times now actually." John was gripping the back of the chair that he'd previously been sitting in, his shoulder burning with pain. "Why do you ask?"

"I told you. I worry about him."

"What? You're worried about us? About us being...together?" John was irritated, but he had to admit that he was also slightly hurt at the thought that Mycroft didn't approve of their relationship.

"No, not at all. I just worry about him in general, although this is mostly new territory for him John. Be patient with him." John's mouth was probably open, but he didn't care. Mycroft was asking John not to hurt Sherlock. "You're good for him John, he may not realize it himself, but trust me, you are. I don't want him getting hurt."

"I...Mycroft you know I wouldn't hurt him."

"Yes, but this is new territory for you as well, I don't want you to decide that this should be just a...fling."

John blinked rapidly a few times. But then he actually let out a genuine chuckle. This conversation, though extremely tense, was quite possibly the most unexpected one he'd ever had. Mycroft scrutinized him, so John wiped his face, stopped his laughter, and responded, "Trust me Mycroft, this isn't a fling. I could much more easily find a less obnoxious person to take to bed if that's all I was interested in. Sherlock is my best friend, and recently I've realized that I...care for him more than anyone else. I would never intentionally hurt him."

If Mycroft was pleased with this answer, he really didn't give much indication. He simply nodded at John, same polite smile on his face.

* * *

><p>John thought about the conversation he'd had with Mycroft while he sat in the cab. Initially he'd told the driver to head to Baker Street, but a text from Sherlock asking him to come to NSY caused John to lean forward and ask the driver to go there instead. <em>Well, Mycroft knows, Mrs. Hudson knows, that's what, half the people Sherlock talks to? I hope he's not upset that Mycroft figured it out.<em> The car pulled up outside of Scotland Yard.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_

_**Hi all,**_

_**I've got the entire subplot of The Great Game worked out, so now it's just about writing it all down. I chose to write down things that happened in the show to give you all refreshers as well as to flesh it out. I want my story to take place within the timeline of the canon universe, but obviously I have to change a lot in order to convey my plot points. This is ultimately why I decided to include dialogue and scenes from the show. I wanted to add to them, extrapolate on them, and give you all the context of the situations. **_

_**If I'm boring you with all the repeating of stuff from the show, please let me know. I don't want it to read like a transcription of the episode. **_

_**Thanks to all the wonderful people who have favorited or followed this story, and thanks for sticking with my hectic upload schedule. As usual, I'd ask if you could please please please review. And as always, thanks for reading. **_

_**Padfoot333**_


	18. We Were Made for Each Other

John joined Sherlock and Lestrade in Lestrade's office. The first "test" had been passed apparently. Sherlock was discussing it with Lestrade, and John was trying to pay attention to their rapid conversation, but was mostly distracted by the thoughts of his conversation with Mycroft. John was pulled from his internal dialogue when the pink phone dinged.

Voicemail. Beep...beep...beep...beep... silence. Then a photo arrived. The photo was of the front end of a car, license plate and all.

Lestrade immediately began to run the plates. John was studying Sherlock who was pouring over the phone. The door to the office opened and Donovan leaned in, phone in hand. "Freak?" She said, and everyone knew she meant Sherlock. "It's for you." She held the phone out to him. He took it and followed her out of the small office. John watched through the glass walls of the small room as Sherlock began speaking into the phone.

"It's okay that you've gone to the police..." a male's voice said in Sherlock's ear.

"Who is this? Is this you again?" Sherlock was frustrated, but didn't know how far he could push without risking some poor innocent sod's life.

"But don't rely on them..." the male voice continued, ignoring Sherlock's questions. "Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers..." Sherlock bristled at the implication that it had been a 'guess,' but chose to ignore it. "I never liked him...Carl laughed at me...so I stopped him laughing."

"And you've stolen another voice I presume?"

"This is about you and me."

"Who are you?" Sherlock listened hard to the lack of voice on the other end, but it wasn't silent. "What's that noise?"

"The sounds of life...Sherlock. But don't worry...I can soon fix that..." The man's voice choked, but he continued on nevertheless. "You solved my last puzzle in 9 hours. This time you have...8." The line died.

John had been watching Sherlock during the whole conversation. He was desperate to know what was happening now, but he was also very concerned with Sherlock's response. The detective was slouched forward, the phone still clutched in his hand, dangled at his side. His face was expressionless, but John knew better than to believe his facial features.

Lestrade jumped up from behind his desk and informed John that he'd found the car. They walked out of the office together to get Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been right about the car looking abandoned. The police were there, surrounding the car, which looked pristine from the outside, but on the inside was smeared with blood. Lestrade informed them that the blood belonged to an Ian Munkford, the same man who had rented the can only the day before from a company called Janus Cars. Ian's wife was standing off to the side of the crime scene.<p>

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and lead him in the direction of the tear-stained woman. John was shocked that when they reached her, Sherlock held out his hand to her and had tears in his eyes. John tried to keep a straight face when he realized that Sherlock was pretending to be a friend of the late Ian. And he had to fight the urge not to elbow Sherlock when he asserted that Ian had been a carefree man, only to be corrected by the wife saying that her husband had been depressed for months.

Before Sherlock got slapped by the obviously flustered woman, he turned away and walked off the scene.

"What was all that about?" John asked when he was sure they were out of earshot of the woman.

"They love to contradict you. Needed information. She's hiding something."

"You think she killed her husband?"

"No no. Did you hear how she refered to him in the past tense though? Bit soon don't you think? I mean they haven't even found a body yet. That's not a mistake the murderer would make. But believe me she's in on it."

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat in the lab at Saint Bart's alone. John had gone in search of a vending machiene, stating that Sherlock was going to at least eat some crisps if John had to pry his mouth open and shovel them in. Sherlock had rolled his eyes, but obliged to eat some, so John had gone off.<p>

Sherlock was using a pipet to drop a clear liquid onto a drop of the blood that had been found in the car. When the liquid made contact, it began to fizzle. He was watching intently, but was startled when the pink phone on the lab table began to ring. Sherlock looked around him, he was indeed still alone, and slowly answered the phone.

The man's voice spoke to him, still shaky and the background was still just as loud as it had been previously. "The clue's in the name. Janus Cars.

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" Sherlock couldn't help but be surprised at this turn of events. This puzzle was for him, so why was the individual behind it force-feeding him clues?

"Why does anyone do anything?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Partial to philosophy, how dull._ "Because, I'm bored." Sherlock's ears perked up at that. _How many times have I felt bored? How far would one go just to avoid the dull existence we lead?_ "We were made for each other Sherlock."

Sherlock considered this for a moment, but found he was shaking his head slightly. _No, not you_. "Then talk to me in your own voice." Sherlock saw John's shadow in front of the door to the lab. _John is made for me_.

"Patience," the voice on the phone said. And then the call ended.

John entered the lab carrying multiple bags of crisps and biscuits. He looked Sherlock over and was worried about how much paler he looked than normal. "You okay?" John asked, stepping closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and stood up from his seated position. He closed the space between himself and John. When Sherlock reached John, he leaned down and snuggled his face into the crook of John's neck. John was surprised and concerned for a moment and so remained still. But after a moment of Sherlock not moving, John wrapped his arms around the detective. Rubbing small circles in to his back with his left hand, and gently running the fingers of his right hand through the mess of curls on Sherlock's head.

"Hey, what is it?" John asked. But Sherlock continued to ignore him. John decided not to push Sherlock and so just held him until he felt Sherlock stir with restlessness. John let his arms fall to his sides and watched the tall man unfold himself, bringing himself back up to his full height. Sherlock looked down at John and gave him a sad little smile.

Sherlock returned to his microscope. John opened one of the bags of crisps and walked over to Sherlock's side. "Come on, you need to eat." John held the bag at arms length, trying to get Sherlock to take it. But Sherlock simply opened his mouth. John sighed, but came closer to Sherlock, dipped his hand into the bag, produced a crisp, and popped it into Sherlock's open mouth. _At least he's eating_, John thought as Sherlock munched and then opened his mouth as a way to ask for another one.


	19. I Never Expected to be Anyones Boyfriend

Sherlock had taken John with him to Janus Cars, a car rental company. After a very odd conversation with the manager, they had headed back to the forensic lab at NSY. John and Sherlock were standing by the car as Lestrade paced slow circles around it.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, "how much blood would you say was in the car?"

Lestrade gave Sherlock an odd look, one eyebrow raised. But he shook his head and said, "I don't know...about a pint."

"Exactly a pint," Sherlock corrected. "That was the first mistake. Ian Munkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago."

"How can you tell?"

"The blood has been frozen." John only had eyes for Sherlock. This part of a case always managed to take his breath away. Sherlock was so clever it was almost scary. "He's not dead."

"Not dead! So what's his blood doing all over the car seat? Where is he?"

"Columbia."

"Columbia!?" Sherlock explained the purpose behind Janus cars, getting people out of trouble by whisking them out of the country. John was certain that at some point during the explanation, his mouth had fallen slightly agape, but then he didn't much mind.

"Now, go do what you do best Lestrade and arrest them." Sherlock was turning away from the Inspector.

"Them?"

"Yes the wife's in on it too. Obviously." John quivered at the word. "Her husband disappears, she collects the life insurance and splits it with Janus Cars." Sherlock walked away without any further explanation. John gave a slight wave in Sherlock's general direction as an apology to Lestrade, and then jogged after his insane flatemate. When John caught up with him, Sherlock pumped his fist at his side, exclaiming "I am on fire!"

John's stomach churned at the realization that had been building in him from the beginning. _He's enjoying this. He doesn't care about these people. No...no... I refuse to believe that. Of course he cares. But that isn't stopping him from enjoying the game. Bloody hell... _

* * *

><p>The next morning John and Sherlock sat across from one another in a small cafe. Sherlock was staring at the pink phone, and had refused to eat anything, claiming he wasn't hungry. John, however, was starving. He'd been living on vending machine crisps since this whole case had begun. He was halfway through his sandwich when his own phone rang, causing both of them to jump.<p>

"Oh Christ, it's Sarah, I forgot to call off this morning," John explained to Sherlock who was eyeing the ringing phone suspiciously. "I have to answer it. Hold on." Sherlock nodded, and John answered the phone. "Hello?"

Sherlock could hear Sarah's raised voice on the other end of the phone. She was very angry. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I forgot to call you. I can't..."

"You can't!" Sarah interrupted. "You're not coming in again today?"

"No. Look I can explain."

"No you look Doctor Watson, I need you hear when you're scheduled to be. This is getting ridiculous."

"Sarah, we're in the middle of an extremely important case."

"You've got to be joking! You can't come into work because you're too bust traipsing around London with that bloody psychopath you call a boyfriend?"

Sherlock got the same old feeling that he always got when someone insulted him like that. Psychopath, nutter, freak, crazy, loon. All those things hit Sherlock, though he had gotten remarkably good at hiding it. He had gotten better at actually not caring about what others thought, but everyone sought approval, it's basic human psychology. But as he watched John's face contort with anger, he wondered what was going to come next. _Perhaps he'll correct her, after all he's never called me his boyfriend before_.

John never failed to surprise Sherlock. Calmly, he took a large breath before responding to Sarah. "We are not 'traipsing' around London. We are currently working to prevent the murder of innocent people. Sherlock is brilliant, and if he says he needs me, I will be there. Also, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't call him a psychopath, because he actually isn't. He'd tell you that he's a sociopath, but he isn't that either. He's just a genius, surrounded by all us ordinary people. Also, I don't call him my boyfriend." Sherlock's heart sank, and he suddenly felt the urge to get up and run. "But I really ought to start. He's an amazing man, and I'm lucky to have him in my life." Sherlock snapped his head up, completely in awe.

Sarah remained quiet on her end of the line for quite awhile, but finally she said "Do you want to keep this job John?"

"Right now, I want to help save people, if that's going to cost me my job, then I guess I quit."

Sarah remained silent for awhile again, and then without another word, Sherlock heard the dial tone. He just quit his job...for me... Sherlock was looking at John with an expression of complete awe.

John ended the call and stuck his phone back into his pocket. He looked up and gave Sherlock a small smile. "Looks like I should've taken that money from Mycroft to spy on you after all." Sherlock's face split into a grin. "Well, I guess you're my boyfriend now." John was grinning, but he was terrified at how Sherlock would respond.

"I never expected to be anyone's boyfriend before." John reached out and set his hand on top of Sherlock's. They sat gazing at each other for some time before the buzzing of the pink phone startled them both.

Another voice mail. Beep...beep...beep... Then the picture. Sherlock looked confused, then angry. "How is that fair? That could be anyone."

John glanced at the photo and immediately recognized the woman in it. "Lucky for you, I've been without a job before."

"What?" Sherlock glanced up at John and then back down to the phone.

"Lucky for you that this boyfriend of yours and your landlady watch way too much telly." John stood up and went over to the counter where he fetched the remote. He clicked through the channels until he found one with a news story. "Connie Prince: Dead" the banner along the bottom of the screen read.


	20. I Like to Watch You Dance

As Sherlock was hungrily watching the news report, the pink phone began to ring. "Hello?" Sherlock answered softly. John watched with a concerned expression plastered across his face. Being in the cafe surrounded by people, Sherlock thought it best not to put the call on speaker. He pulled John close so that they could both hear the person on the other end of the line.

"This one...is a bit...defective..." A woman's voice rasped from the phone. "Sorry...She's blind...This is a...funny one... I'll give you... 12 hours..."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, John could feel the quiver of rage run Sherlock's spine.

"I like...to watch you...dance." The line went dead.

* * *

><p>John sat in the home of former reality show star Connie Prince. She had shared her home with her brother and her house boy. John was posing as a reporter for a newspaper, the name of which he had been rather vague about. As he sat on the large pristine white sofa, a hairless cat jumped up next to him.<p>

John was making friendly conversation but his mind was whirling. Connie's autopsy had reviled that she had died of tetanus, but the cut that had supposedly caused the fatal condition had been post mortem. She must have received the disease in another way, and John was beginning to suspect murder.

_Her brother doesn't seem to upset by her passing... He's her only family, more than likely her sole benefactor. Perhaps he killed her for her money. Money is the biggest reason for murder after all. But how did he do it?_ The sphynx cat crawled into John's lap, and even though John tried to remove it, it just crawled right back on. John didn't have a problem with cats, he even thought this one was rather cute, but it's claws were long and sharp, and it was digging them into the soft flesh of John's thighs. _That's it... The cat..._

John made a hasty phone call to Sherlock, asking him to meet him at the Prince house. 20 minutes later, Sherlock arrived carrying the bag John had instructed him to bring. Moments later Sherlock was using the bright flash to momentarily blind Mr. Prince so that John could look at the cat's paws. In a hurry, John gave the word and he and Sherlock swept quickly out of the house and into the street.

* * *

><p>John was arguing with Sherlock as they walked down the road. "You think it was the cat?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide the amusement in his tone.<p>

"Yes it's paws reeked of disinfectant, the cat was a gift from Connie's brother. He killed her for her money."

"No, I thought the same thing when I saw the scratches on her body, but it's too random and far too clever for the brother."

"But what about it's paws?" John asked, not wanting to face the fact that he had been so completely wrong.

"You saw the state of those floors, scrubbed within an inch of their life. it's bound to have disinfectant on it's paws, you smell like disinfectant. No, the cat doesn't have anything to do with it."

John grumbled under his breath. He had been so proud of himself for solving the case, on his own. He had wanted to wow Sherlock for once. But instead he had made an utter arse out of himself.

* * *

><p>At Scotland Yard, Sherlock finally revealed to Lestrade and John how Connie Prince had actually been murdered. Apparently it had been Raul the house boy, who had overdosed her on botox injections. Lestrade briefly left John and Sherlock alone to call a team together to rescue the latest hostage.<p>

John glared at Sherlock was has happily typing away on his laptop, presumably posting the results to his blog so that the bomber would allow the woman to go free. When Sherlock didn't look up at John, but kept on smirking to himself, John finally lost it.

"How long have you known?"

Sherlock glanced up, slightly startled. "Sorry?"

"How long have you known about the solution?"

"It was fairly obvious from the beginning, I noticed her injection marks, looked into..."

John cut Sherlock off. "Fairly obvious from the beginning? Why did you let me go over to her house then? Why waste all that time? Damn it Sherlock."

"If I solved this one too quickly he'd give me less time on the next one. Plus it gave me time to look into it more. Get a leg up on him."

John gripped the back of a chair he was standing behind. He wanted to slap Sherlock right across the face, tell him how cold-hearted this whole thing was. But he didn't have a chance to say anything. Just as Lestrade returned to the office, the pink phone rang.

"Help me." The woman's voice said.

"Tell us where you are. Address." Sherlock spoke slowly but firmly.

"He was so...his voice..."

"No, no, no, tell me nothing about him. Nothing." Sherlock's heart began to pound. He was losing control of the situation fast, and he could see only one end if he didn't regain that control.

"He sounded so..soft." A dial tone rang sharp in Sherlock's ear. He held his breath, blinking rapidly, almost praying that he was hearing wrong.

"What's happened?" Lestrade asked, confirming Sherlock's fears. Sherlock could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes as he though about the old blind woman, who had been so scared for so long, and had just died so needlessly._ I could have saved her. I should have solved the case earlier. If I had... Why did she have to...This is my fault. _

They all sat in silence for a moment, as the reality of the situation sunk into each one of them.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note:<strong>_

_**Sorry this chapter took so long to get written and posted. The holidays were pretty stressful for me. But I should be back to my normal writing schedule and you can expect updates more often. **_

_**Also, I apologize that this chapter is so short. I might come back later and try to flesh it out some more, but I don't think it is a very vital chapter to the development of the story as a whole. This subplot is almost at an end, so we will be getting back to the romance and smut soon. **_

_**Thanks for sticking with me, and as always, thanks for reading. **_


	21. You're Bloody Frustrating But I Love You

Lestrade had given the boys a lift back to their flat. Sherlock sat in his arm chair in silence, fingers steepled under his chin. To John, Sherlock appeared to be in a serene state of thought, but this could not be farther from the truth. In fact, Sherlock's mind was flying at a speed almost unheard of, and all the racing thoughts were troubling him deeply. He was trying to suppress all these feelings. He had never before experienced such a crushing failure. _This is my fault_, his mental self taunted over and over. The only reason for Sherlock's calm demeanor was the fact that he was running through his mind palace trying to find a place to lock up all these thoughts and experiences.

John watched the detective for a moment. He found a wave of anger was bubbling up inside him. He had been shocked and mortified when Sherlock had heard the line go dead, and he couldn't help but to blame Sherlock, at least a little. Some part of John knew that was unfair and unreasonable, after all Sherlock hadn't strapped the old woman into the bomb blanket. But Sherlock had solved the puzzle, he'd known the answer, perhaps if he had revealed his knowledge earlier, the woman would still be alive

John began to worry that he was going to yell at Sherlock, so instead asked to the room in general, "Why is he doing this?"

Sherlock answered before he really even registered the question. "He wants to be distracted. I can't be the only one who gets bored."

John's mouth fell open. In that moment, he seriously considered crossing the room and punching Sherlock square in his beautiful face, maybe even hard enough to shatter one of those perfect cheekbones. But he stood perfectly still and gripped the back of his own armchair that he was standing behind. His grip was so tight that his knuckles were white and his wrists were beginning to ache. His voice shook with anger and disappointment as he said "Well, I hope you two will be very happy together."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock glanced up at John. _He's angry. He should be... Does he not want to be with me anymore?_ Sherlock mentally kicked himself over and over, trying to drive the thoughts out. Finally, he managed to shut down basically everything, detach himself once more. He'd learned this trick when he was a child, and he practiced it all the time, up until John had come into his life.

"There are lives at stake Sherlock! Actual human lives!" John was shouting, but his volume couldn't pierce Sherlock's mental walls now. Sherlock would have to come out on his own. "Just so I know, do you care about them at all?"

_A question has been asked, and answer is required._"Will caring about them help me save them?"

John shook his head, still gripping the armchair. "No."

"Then I will continue to not make that mistake."

"And you find that easy do you?

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No...no." John cast his gaze down. In truth it had surprised him. If Sherlock was telling the truth, then how could John ever expect to be in a happy relationship with the crazy detective? _He believes caring is a mistake, so how can he possibly care about me?_

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said as he pulled out his phone and began rapidly typing.

"It's good, it's a good deduction, yeah."

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them." The room was quiet for a moment, save for the clicking of Sherlock's phone. "I'm looking online, check the papers."

John stood motionless still, looking down at his feet. He felt a shiver run up his spine and he thought he might actually cry. He was considering telling Sherlock to piss off. _I don't want to spend all my time caring for someone who can't care for me. I can't. I should just break this off now._ The thought of breaking off their romantic entanglement was heartbreaking to John, especially since he believed a breakup would mean that they could no longer be friends. _Could I bear never seeing Sherlock again?_

"Oh, you're angry with me so you won't help. Not much cop this caring lark."

John looked up at Sherlock and their eyes locked. The tears at the edges of John's hazel eyes pierced through Sherlock's thick walls and brought him back to himself. He had not only disappointed John, but hurt him as well.

Sherlock opened his mouth and then shut it again, not sure what to say. Suddenly he felt he couldn't look John in the eye any longer. He cast his gaze down and slouched over, resting his head in his hands.

John watched the shift in Sherlock's demeanor. He wondered what it could mean. _He's probably just bored with me._ He took in a deep breath, certain that what he was about to say, would cause his tears to flow freely. "Sherlock, I can't love someone who doesn't even care about me..."

Sherlock's head whipped up, and his eyes frantically searched John's face. _Please...please don't._

"I'm...sorry Sherlock." John turned his back on Sherlock and moved toward the door. _Where will I go?_ As he reached a hand out for the handle he heard Sherlock stand, then he heard a loud crash. When he turned around, Sherlock was standing inches away. The crash had been Sherlock knocking over the lamp in his haste to get to John.

The detective threw his arms around John, grasping at him desperately. He was burying his face in the soft material of John's jumper. With one huge shuddering breath, Sherlock began to sob.

John found himself having to support most of Sherlock's weight, which granted wasn't very much, as the lanky man pressed against his chest and shook. John's own tears had stopped and he focused on simply trying to calm Sherlock down.

"Please...please don't...don't go...don't leave...don't leave me..." Sherlock's words were broken by the loud sobs and him trying to catch his breath. John could feel Sherlock's heart racing, and quickly identified this as a panic attack.

"Okay...It's okay Sherlock. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay. Shhh." John was rubbing his hands along Sherlock's back, trying to be as comforting as possible.

"I...I...I love you..."

John closed his eyes tightly, relief daring to edge into his brain. He was exhausted and stressed, but Sherlock had just told him that he loved him. "I love you too," John whispered into the mess of Sherlock's hair. "You are bloody frustrating, but I love you too."

Sherlock's breathing was beginning to slow, and he wasn't shaking quite so hard anymore. John gently tugged him over to the sofa, where they could both sit down.

Sherlock curled into John's side, keeping his head buried in the crook of John's neck, and his arms wrapped around John's middle. John continued to stroke Sherlock's back, every once and awhile making a soothing noise or reminding Sherlock that things were okay.

When Sherlock finally calmed down and stopped crying, he sat up slightly and looked at John. "Sorry," he mumbled.

" 's okay. I'm sorry too."

"Hey," John said and grabbed Sherlock's chin, pulling it up so that their gazes would meet. "This is not your fault. Some psychopath is strapping bombs to people and telling you to solve puzzles or those bombs will go off. That is the person to blame, not you."

"I do care John... I just don't like how this feels... failing I mean. I feel so...so... guilty. I didn't even think of how my words would affect you. Please believe me when I say that I care more about you than anything else in this world."

"I believe you. I don't know why I ever doubted you." John ran a hand over Sherlock's face, wiping away the last remnants of tears. He leaned in slowly, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's left cheek. John kissed softly and pulled away, tasting the saltiness from Sherlock's emotion. John then kissed the other cheek.

Their lips met. Both men's eyes fluttered closed and they let their mouths grind against each other. Sherlock's tongue grazed along John's upper lip, and John in response bit down slightly on Sherlock's lower lip. The kisses were gentle, which allowed for plenty of breaths to be taken, and rhythm to be maintained. Therefore, the kiss lasted for quite sometime.

Sherlock was gripping the collar of John's jumper, and John's hands were tangled in Sherlock's hair when the pink phone beeped with a message.


	22. Let's Go Home

Another cab ride was taking John and Sherlock away from a riverbank where they had been looking over the most recent body. Sherlock had identified both the body and the killer. He had also made a strange assertion that a newly discovered painting about to be unveiled was in fact a fake. But still no phone call had come on the pink phone.

John was snuggled close to Sherlock in the backseat. Both men were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street and sleep for days. But of course, with the new case, they could only assume some poor bastard was out there strapped into explosives.

Quite out of the blue, Sherlock asked the cab driver to pull over and wait a moment. He scrambled over John and out of the car. John blinked momentarily, shook his head and then struggled to keep up.

A young woman sat in front of Sherlock and John. She was dressed in a tattered and dirty sweater, faded and torn jeans, and fingerless gloves that looked like they may once have been a light shade of blue. A cardboard sign was set down on the bench beside her. "Anything helps, God bless," it read in large shaky letters. As Sherlock approached the woman help out a small cup that John assumed had a small number of coins in it.

John heard the woman ask Sherlock for any spare change. John was aware of Sherlock's lack of social skills and sympathy, but when he heard Sherlock say "What for?" he couldn't help but be shocked. _What do you think it's bloody for?_

"Cuppa tea o' course," the woman replied cheerily. John was reaching around to get out his wallet, but stopped as he watched Sherlock pull out his own. Sherlock handed the woman a 50 pound note and gave her a small smile, then he turned around and headed back toward the cab. John was now thoroughly confused.

Sherlock reached the cab with John on his heels, and climbed in. John attempted to enter beside him, but Sherlock blocked him. "I need you to go to Woodbridge's flat. See what you can find out about him."

* * *

><p>It had been a long day for John, and he felt he couldn't remember ever feeling this tired before. He had visited the flat of the gallery attendant like Sherlock had asked him to do, and then he'd gone to speak with West's fiancee to show Mycroft that something was in fact being done about the missing missile plans.<p>

Try as John might, he couldn't justify Sherlock's choices of sending him to investigate either of the crimes. _Sherlock is the detective, not me. I think he made that point quite clear at the home of Connie Price. What was I thinking, the bloody cat did it. Good one John._ Needless to say, John was feeling quite out of his depth.

Sherlock spotted John shambling along the pavement toward Baker Street from his cab window. As soon as he'd paid the cabbie, he jumped out and bounded over to reunite with his favorite blogger.

John was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock caught up with him, and even more surprised when Sherlock intertwined his long fingers with John's. John was so content that he didn't notice that Sherlock began steering them away from the path to Baker Street. Sherlock was gently pulling John along, and even though he was trying to focus all his attention on the case, he couldn't help the way holding John's hand made his heart skip a beat. He wanted to go back to their flat, wanted to fall asleep with John holding him. _Forget the case_. But he couldn't, lives were at stake.

A strong smell is what brought John out of his contentment. He looked around to see where Sherlock had lead him. The walls of the alley they were walking down were covered in graffiti, and the paths were littered with all sorts of garbage. Then John saw people in the shadows. Dozens of men and women were sitting and lying amongst the garbage. They wore dirty clothes, their hair and faces were filthy, and many of them were sleeping on heaps of garbage. A few dogs were among the people, if you could call them dogs. They were more like furry skeletons, rooting around in the trash or snuggling close to one of the people, both trying desperately to keep warm. _Why did he bring me to a homeless hangout?_

Evidently, Sherlock heard John's thoughts and decided now was a good time to explain. "My homeless network. These are my eyes and ears all over the city." He made a sweeping gesture at the people around them with his free hand."

"I see, so you scratch their backs and then..."

"I disinfect myself." Sherlock gave John's hand a squeeze, looking for some approval.

But praise didn't have a chance to come, because suddenly Sherlock pulled John against a wall. John tried to object but Sherlock quickly silenced him. Then John saw what they were here for, a giant shadow of a man, bent over oddly, and completely menacing. It could only be the Golem, the master assassin Sherlock had identified as the killer of the gallery attendant. Seconds ticked by with John and Sherlock clinging to each other and watching the assassin's shadow. The Golem slowly and purposefully stood upright, stilled for a moment, and then began to run.

Without hesitation, Sherlock took off after him, and of course John followed. They ran and ran, but just as they finally seemed to be gaining on the giant, he lumbered into a car and took off at full speed.

Sherlock's fist slammed against the nearest wall. "It'll take us weeks to find him again!"

John was doubled over trying to catch his breath, but suddenly he felt very useful. "Maybe not," he said through gasps. "I think I know where he's going." John quickly explained the message from the astronomy professor who had called to tell Woodbridge that he was right about something.

After John was finished explaining, Sherlock beamed at him and grasped his cheeks between his hands. He pushed forward and crashed their lips together with a wet *smack.* When he pulled away he shouted "Brilliant, John!" and then took off running into the night.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock were lying close together on a large stage in the middle of a lecture hall. The only light came from the paused astronomy video. The men were breathing heavily. John had a pain in his shoulder, Sherlock was sure his wrist was fractured as well as a rib or two.<p>

The two had been too late to save the professor. They witnessed the Golem as he finished squeezing the life out of her. Sherlock ran toward the man, who was easily over 7 feet tall and built like a barn. John was trying to point his gun at the assassin, but the astronomy presentation was messed up, causing the lights to flash, making it impossible for John to be certain that his bullet wouldn't hit Sherlock also.

They had been stupid enough to try to fight the man. He almost killed Sherlock simply by squeezing him, but John had leaped onto the back of the killer, giving Sherlock a chance to grab John's dropped gun. After flinging John at Sherlock, the Golem successfully fled and escaped, leaving the two men bruised and panting.

"You alright?" John asked Sherlock.

"Yes... You?"

"I'm fine. You don't sound fine though. Let me look at you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You can look me over when we get back to the flat. Come on, let's get a cab and call Lestrade."

John wanted to object, but going home sounded too wonderful to argue. "Alright, let's go home."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_**In the next chapter will be a more adult one. So if that's what you're here for, stay tuned. But as with the last adult chapter, this one will not contain any major plot points, so if you are not into the dirty stuff, you can skip it. **_

_**Thanks to all of you who have favorited and followed. I'm extremely grateful. **_

_**One of my biggest worries is that I'm boring you guys with stuff from the show, so if you have a chance, please leave me a review and let me know if I'm doing too much detail from the show, not enough, just enough or whatever. I hope to hear from you! **_

_**As always, thanks for reading.**_


	23. The Body Explodes

Sherlock rang Lestrade to inform him of the unfortunately deceased Professor and the subsequent escape of the Golem. Lestrade wanted John and Sherlock to make their way down to the Yard, but after some argument, Sherlock eventually convinced the detective that both himself and John were far too tired to deal with all of the "irritating and dim witted officers" employed by NSY. After solemnly swearing that he and John would be at the Yard first thing in the morning, Sherlock hung up the phone and cuddled close to John on their way home to their flat.

When they were walking up the stairs, John felt his legs were remarkably heavy and he felt himself sway. Sherlock reached out and placed a steadying hand around the doctor's shoulders to keep him from tumbling down. At the top of the stairs, Sherlock unlocked the door and the two men went eagerly inside. John immediately made toward the stairs that led up to his room, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him instead toward his own room. John was too tired to be surprised.

Of course John had been inside Sherlock's bedroom before, but he still glanced around and took in the sight of it. There were books, notebooks, and papers strewn around the floor and on most of the flat surfaces throughout the room. On the dresser sat a framed collection of pinned insects, a glass dome over a skeleton of some small mammal, and a recently sanitized set of medical scalpels. On the wall was a large poster of the periodic table of elements, which John often wondered why Sherlock needed, because he was absolutely sure that Sherlock had the entire table memorized.

John and Sherlock both shed their coats onto a chair in the corner of the room. Then John sat on the edge of the newly made bed, evidence that Mrs. Hudson had recently been in to clean. The bed was a large queen sized mattress wrapped in clean white sheets and covered in a dark tan comforter. 4 large pillows in dark brown pillowcases, sat up against the headboard.

John and Sherlock took off their shoes and socks, leaving them on the floor beside the bed. John stood up heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, sleep and worry thickly laced in his voice.

"I need to get some sleep clothes from my room. I'll be right back."

"Can't you just borrow something of mine?" Sherlock looked hopefully at John through heavily lidded eyes.

John rolled his eyes and nodded. Sherlock gave a smile and opened up a drawer to find something for them both to sleep in. Sherlock selected a pair of light blue plaid sleep bottoms for John and a pair of dark forest green bottoms for himself. John stripped himself out of his trousers and pulled on the ones Sherlock had handed him. The sleep pants were slightly tight in the middle but far too long for his short, muscular legs. John pulled off his jumper, leaving on the white t-shirt underneath, and then crawled onto the large soft bed.

Sherlock pulled his own trousers down, and swiftly pulled the sleep bottoms on. He then unbuttoned his jacket and dress shirt. He pulled on a thin grey shirt and made his way into the bed next to John.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side to face John, who followed suit. John extended his arm as an invitation for Sherlock to snuggle close, and of course that's exactly what Sherlock did.

John had been cold out in the streets of London, but now with Sherlock pressing close to him and the large comforter wrapped around them, he was fast being covered in a sheen of sweat. But with Sherlock breathing deeply and clinging to John like an octopus, John didn't want to move and disrupt their cuddle session. _I managed to sleep in the unrelenting heat of Afghanistan, surely I can manage Sherlock's body heat_. Though John wasn't sure he remembered the dessert being this hot.

Sleep took them both quickly, and they rested in dark dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>When the morning light first began peeking through the curtains, John found himself stirring. He could feel Sherlock still pressed against his side, arms wrapped tightly around John's torso, and his breath hot on John's neck.<p>

John tried to stay asleep, but years of military training had taught him to be fully awake rather quickly, so he let his eyes flutter open and look over at the sleeping form of Sherlock. John's eyes scanned slowly over the sleeping detective, taking in every square inch. He wished he had a photographic memory like Sherlock, but since he didn't, he decided he was just going to have to intensely study his new lover instead.

While he was looking, he began slowly tracing circles on Sherlock's back. The pleasant pressure pulled Sherlock out of his own sleep. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open, and John's breath was taken away. A thin beam of sunlight struck Sherlock's eyes and just that instant, and John had never seen eyes with such a wide range of colors. In that moment Sherlock's eyes were blue and green and yellow with small slivers of brown and even grey mixed in. They shone more gloriously than any jewel John had ever seen. Those big eyes were framed by Sherlock's long dark lashes, and heavy lids from a good night's rest.

In that one small moment, John couldn't resist. He pressed forward and captured Sherlock's lower lip between his own. His arms pulled the detective firmly against him, and they kissed for a few long moments, only pulling up when absolutely necessary for air.

Sherlock's hands wound their way down until he was groping John's firm arse. He used the grip to press John's pelvis harder into his own. When he was satisfied with the amount of pressure, he began slowly rocking his hips to create friction.

Their kissing was fast growing frantic and John was letting out low moans into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock could feel his heart racing, and he ached for more contact between his skin and John's.

John decided to take control, after all Sherlock had kind of called the shots last time. He firmly pushed Sherlock until he was on his back, and then John straddled the skinny man. Sherlock looked desperate at the lack of kissing, but lost that look as soon as John began working his shirt off. Sherlock tried to pull his own shirt off, but John caught his arms and pressed them back down into the mattress.

John shimmied his hips and worked his way down along Sherlock's never-ending legs. When he was satisfied with his new location, John pressed his hands under Sherlock's bum and pressed his fingers into the waistband of both sleep bottoms and pants.

Sherlock was so wound up and eager, that he thrust his hips high off the bed to allow John the ability to pull down the obtrusive fabric. But John, seeing Sherlock's desperation decided to take his time working the trousers down. Achingly slow and amazingly sexy were John's movements. And as the trousers moved down the pale skin, John placed kissed that made Sherlock shiver, along those gorgeous legs.

Finally, Sherlock thought when he was free of his pants and trousers, but he wanted to see more of John, wanted to feel more of John. He reached a hand up and ran his fingers along John's chest, letting one finger gently graze over John's right nipple. John's breath hitched, and Sherlock wondered if he could last very long when John was making there ridiculously sexy noises.

John eased himself up so he could remove his own trousers and then straddled Sherlock once again. Sherlock reached an eager hand out and gave John's length a slow stroke, John responded by mimicking the movement on Sherlock's cock. John grinned wickedly down at the panting Sherlock who's hand had stilled around John's shaft.

"Jo...John," Sherlock panted, wanting John to move his hand some more.

"What is it love?" John asked innocently, leaning down to place a kiss in the middle of Sherlock's chest.

"Touch...move...please." Oh how John loved this, seeing Sherlock falling apart. The normally so eloquent detective wasn't able to string a single sentence together right now, and it was all because of John.

"I think I've come up with a clever little game. You have to touch me the way you want to be touched. I'll mimic you. Like a game of Sherlock Says." John watched Sherlock's pupils dilate even further, almost all of the blue was gone now, taken over by the yawning blackness of pupil.

Sherlock gripped harder on John's shaft, and when John did the same, he felt his breath hitch. He began slowly pumping John, easy and tentative at first, experimenting with the way John responded. But Sherlock's own desire was fast winning out.

Their two hands were moving faster now, and against Sherlock's will his eyes kept closing. He could hear ragged breath and little moans, but he wasn't sure if they were coming from his mouth or from John's. Sherlock began thrusting his hips lightly, and John did the same. Both men were definitely moaning now, John's more guttural grunts and Sherlock's more deep moans.

Sherlock felt himself on a precipice, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off. _The heart races, the pupil dilate, the muscles clench, and the body...explodes. _

Everything was shaking. Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, but he could still hear John's heavy breathing and groaning. He could make out that John was still going. He realized that in his climax, he had stopped moving his hand, and so John had grabbed his wrist and was using Sherlock's still tight fist. Sherlock willed his eyes to open, wanting to watch as John experienced the glorious fall like he had.

And John did. Just the same, John sped up frantically then shook as he erupted in Sherlock's hand. He called out Sherlock's name, and then collapsed in a sweaty heap on top of the heavily breathing genius.

They lay this way for several moments, not wanting to disrupt the peace of the situation. But just as John felt himself being pulled back into sleep, Sherlock's phone began ringing, and reminded them both that there was a crime to solve.


End file.
